Following You
by PerennialChild
Summary: Post 8x23. The latest chapter features Dean's admiration of professional killers with houseplants, Don being A Cool Husband, and the Kev and Crowley team taking out a zombie mariachi band. Larger concerns of the story are to address the world of 2014, and how all roads, metaphorically speaking, might just lead to Rome. Some light but angsty Destiel in later chapters.
1. A New Soul

Castiel stood swaying in the clearing he'd found, unable to pull his eyes away from the sight of his brethren burning in the sky, plummeting to Earth. It was beautiful. Horrifyingly, traitorously beautiful.

_No_. _I didn't want this_.

He wanted to fly, to rescue, but his wings were gone, and he felt a fierce ache where they used to be. So, so empty. He was empty. He was gone, he was a shell and a walking carcass. He took in a deep, shuddering breath, and choked on it.

_No._

Was Dean praying to him? He couldn't know. He'd never be able to fly to him again, to heal his and his brother's wounds. He could never smite his enemies, or hear his prayers.

_I didn't want this._

His brothers and sisters would be walking the Earth now, just like Lucifer once had. Would they be as dangerous? Had he just unleashed _another _worldwide calamity, when he'd been trying to do the exact opposite? And if, if Naomi had been right about this, was she right about the Hell Trials as well? _Please let Sam be safe_.

His knees buckled from underneath of him. Human for all of one minute, and he was crying, howling like an animal, shaking and burning from the inside out, hot emotion reaching out desperately to his lost grace, his falling brothers-in-arms, and his tiny, makeshift family.

The loss was too much, and his grief lost all words, became just a long, drawn out, hopeless scream. He was going to die here, he was sure of it. His soul, _he had a soul_, would simply shatter inside of him and he would die. There'd be no story for Metatron to hear.

But his new soul was too stubbornly sturdy, and it didn't break, wouldn't fracture for all the horror it was witnessing. The last of the lights faded out of the sky, and, for all of his trembling and weakness, Castiel was still alive.

He hiccupped, and it was only when he began to freeze in the night air, _he could feel the cold, he was dying already, _that he managed to pick himself up and begin walking.

There was only one thing that he could do now, and that was to Find Dean. He didn't know what to do with himself, only knew he had to _fix it_, the harm he'd caused. Dean would point him in the right direction. He was the only one Castiel had ever followed, who didn't lead him astray.


	2. Sam Wakes Up

_A/N: I just realized I picked the worst possible name for this fic. Because now, whenever I get email alerts, it's always "_ is following following you," and that just sounds __**weird. **_

It took no small amount of effort for Dean to fold his brother into the backseat of the Impala, but he managed it, and the second he'd made Sam as comfortable as he could manage he pulled away, prepared to floor the gas pedal until they reached the nearest hospital.

Sam wasn't having any of that.

"Dn," he muttered, latching onto the edge of his sleeve. "Crwly."

"Let go, Sammy, there's no time." He'd gank the sonuvabitch right now if he could, but Sam was the priority. Crowley could just sit and stew in his devil's trap, and if he became a problem later they'd deal with him then. _Together, _this time.

"No." He was surprisingly adamant. "Lt hm go."

"_Are you crazy?!_" But Sam kept on shaking his head, and Dean couldn't refuse him, not in that state, so it was with a shriek of frustration that he tore away back into the church, demon killing blade in hand.

Crowley was crying, frenzied, before he even reached him. "I'm nearly human, please, don't kill me, please."

That gave Dean pause, and he peered at the part-demon who had never begged, to his knowledge, the entire time he'd known him. He raised the knife and watched, fascinated, as Crowley, _Crowley, _flinched away.

Then he bent down, and began undoing his bindings. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you now," he said lowly. "But that's only because of Sammy. Trust me, if I ever see your ugly mug again… I'll waste you."

Work finished, he looked into Crowley's eyes. There was genuine fear in them, and that gave Dean a rush of pleasure, brought a cold smile to his face. He had the upper hand here. "I'd start running if I were you, Crowley," he said. "I can't guarantee I won't come looking for you."

A nod, and Dean was running back to the car. Whatever it took, he was going to cure his brother. Everything else; fallen angels, demons… they could all wait.

oOo

It was weeks before Castiel managed to make it to the bunker. How he finally got to it, he wasn't entirely sure; everything was a mix of stale food and smelly car interiors he'd hitchhiked in, to him. People had been good to him, on his journey here. It stung.

And now that he _was_ here, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be. It would only make it more real, going to Dean and having to tell him, again, that he'd ruined everything. And, what was it Metatron said? _I want you to stop thinking about master plans, and Heaven, and angels, and all this… That doesn't concern you anymore._

Castiel wished that was true. But he had a Duty, and that was part of what propelled him to the door. What the other part was, he didn't want to think of. His own fear and loneliness and loss, that wasn't what was important here. He had no right to seek shelter among the Winchesters.

He was faintly surprised when Dean opened the door, and immediately wrapped him in a hug.

"I thought you were dead," his friend whispered, tightening his arms. _I wish I was, _Castiel thought, but he found himself sinking into the embrace, even returning it. He was filled with a warmth that was pulled away all too soon, as Dean withdrew and looked him over, grinning.

"You look like crap." He did, too; he'd never really stopped, in all the time getting here, to clean himself up, he only slept when he couldn't prevent his body from doing so, and had only eaten morsels of what sympathetic people had given him.

"Yes," he said, and because seeing Dean again only rekindled the worry that had been eating away at him, "Sam?"

"He's recovering." Dean's smile faded slightly. "I think, it looks like it. Come in. And… take a shower. We'll talk after."

The shower was a mild difficulty, but Castiel read all of the labels on all of the containers before beginning, and thought he had a pretty good grasp on which products were used where, and how. The water was warm and beat on his back pleasantly, and it was with a bit of reluctance that he finally withdrew, pulling himself into some spare clothes that Dean had conjured up for him, because _there's no way you're getting back into those, it would defeat the whole purpose._

When he entered the living room area, Dean was smiling again. "Took you long enough, princess," he chuckled, and when Castiel shrugged in response, his smile grew wider. But that was only for a moment; then he was all business. He indicated for Castiel to sit next to him on a sofa.

"Talk to me. What's been going on? How are you here?"

Castiel sighed, tried to organize his thoughts. "Metatron betrayed me," he said, softly. "Naomi was right. He stole my grace, and with it completed a spell to expel all the angels from Heaven. I'm… human, now." It hurt more than he expected to say it aloud, his memories were still too painfully vivid, having his throat slit open, his grace pulled out, and suffering those first few, terrifying seconds where he was actually bleeding from the neck, bleeding out and dying, before Metatron healed him and returned him to the Earth. Where he was able to witness, firsthand, the consequences of his stupidity.

Dean's face was open, and Castiel hoped that the broken expression in it wasn't a mirror of his. "Cas…" His hand reached out, hovered in the air as if unsure what to do with itself, before settling on Castiel's arm. "I…"

Castiel's head dropped, he looked at his hands. "The angels are walking the Earth now, and… Dean, I don't know what to do. I need to be told what to do."

There was something in Dean's expression that he couldn't read, and the man's lips opened to answer, as a voice came echoing from the other side of the room.

"Dean? _Cas?_" It was Sam, holding himself steady on the doorframe, all pale, sweaty skin and feverish eyes.

Dean leapt out of his seat. "You're awake!"


	3. Nightmare

"Feeding tubes, Dean? Really?"

"You weren't waking up."

Sam nodded wearily, looked around the room. "How long has it been?" he asked. "Where's Kevin?"

"A couple of weeks. And he bolted, left us a note on how he couldn't take the pressure, he was going to Fiji to finish translating the tablet or something."

"A couple of weeks." Sam's face, if it was possible, paled even more, and he lurched into the room, collapsed into an armchair. "Wow. And… Cas." His face scrunched up as he regarded the former angel, as if he was trying to remember something. "You're _alive. _Was I hallucinating? Before I passed out, I thought… I thought I saw…"

Castiel looked like he was struggling with the prospect of saying it again, so Dean spoke up. "You weren't seeing things, Sammy. The angels fell. Cas is one of us now."

Moment of weakness over, Castiel continued. "That's not all," he said, and Dean's eyes flicked back to his in alarm. "My brethren are cut off from Heaven now, but they still have power, just as Lucifer had power when he was cast into the Pit. I fear what that may mean for the future… I'm not sure what they will do, if they'll try finding a way back into Heaven, or if they'll start attacking the humans."

"Oh, and let's not forget that they'll all be hunting you down, too," Dean snarked. "What the hell, Cas?! I thought fallen angels lost their memories!"

"That is a very distinct possibility, them hunting me," Castiel answered, completely blasé, and Dean struggled with a momentary urge to punch him. "As for losing their memories…that only happens when angels voluntarily tear out their Grace. These angels would still have their Grace, they've just had their wings clipped, been cut off from the source. How do I say this, the spell was… cleaner?"

"So, you're the only one who's been… depowered?" Sam was trying to keep up, but his head felt too cottony and the rest of him felt like it had been run over by a cement roller. He wasn't necessarily at his top game.

"Yes," Castiel said. "I'm also the only one… my Grace is irretrievable. I'm not ever…" His throat closed up with an audible click, and Dean wanted to reach out again, and try to comfort, but something told him that this wasn't the time, that if he reached out now, he might never let go.

So he stood up. "Well thank you, Mr. Exposition," he muttered tightly, interrupting the man, the _man _before he started flying apart in front of him. "But how about we all eat something before it's midnight, yeah? We can figure this all out tomorrow."

Castiel looked utterly lost at the idea of eating dinner, and when Dean passed by Sam to ask how he was, all he got was a wan smile and a "Would it sound strange if I told you I'm getting used to feeling like crap?"

It was going to be a long year.

oOo

There was just no bloody way this was happening.

Crowley had been lost when the psychotic hunter-squirrel, _Dean, _had released him. He'd gone to confessionals, murdered a few family pets, helped an old lady with her bags, and set fire to an orphanage. He was all over the place. He was a mess.

A few baptisms later, and he was considering returning to Hell. He still had a job there, he was pretty sure, and although at times it repulsed him beyond imagination, the rest of the time he was pretty sure he loved it. He _did _love it, right? Being King of Hell, having all that power. Except the demons were only afraid of him, he never had any actual rapport with them; they didn't feel loyal to him because they _liked _him. Was that important to him? He couldn't remember; it seemed like it was.

So he went back, half-formed thoughts on reforming Hell's torturing system again on his mind. But when he got there, he was forced to remember, that infernal moose-Sam had neglected to kill the Knight properly, and she'd returned to Hell long before he had.

She'd declared herself Queen, and was more than prepared for his arrival.

oOo

That first night was the worst. None of them had actually been able to eat anything, and when one by one they began sheepishly excusing themselves to go sleep (Dean dragging Castiel with him, when he decided enough was enough), sleep didn't even come. Mainly because Castiel was doing his best to scream his lungs out of commission.

Sam stumbled into Dean's room, hands clamped over his ears. "What's going on?" he demanded, watching Dean struggle out of his sheets, hurriedly pull some clothing on.

"I don't know. Something's wrong with Cas, give me a minute."

Dean crept into Castiel's room quietly, gently easing the door open when the latest bout of screaming subsided. "Hey, Cas?" he called. He didn't get a response. Castiel was asleep, but thrashing on the bed, moaning and whimpering as he clawed the sheets.

It was physically painful to watch. Dean padded over.

"Cas, man, you've got to wake up—" He put a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder, and the second he did, Castiel reared upwards, eyes flying open as he clutched Dean's arms and yelled, "It's COMING!"

Dean blinked. "What's coming?" he said, more out of reflex than anything else. Then, as he saw Castiel's eyes cloud in confusion, he soothed. "Hey, Cas, it was just a nightmare, don't panic, we all have them—"

"Not me," Castiel whispered. Still clutching Dean, he buried his head in his chest. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"I know," Dean hushed.

It was some time before Dean felt it safe to return to his room, and when he did, he found Sam still awake, sitting cross legged on his mattress, forehead full of worried creases.

"What was that?"

"I'm not sure." Dean crawled back into the bed, nudged Sam with his foot so he'd scoot over. "I don't know what being human is gonna do to him, Sam. All I know is, we're gonna have to research the hell out of this falling-angel thing. Who knows what they're gonna do. What's coming next." He yawned and punched his pillow a few times, before sinking into it. Sam remained quiet a few moments, thinking.

"Dean."

"Mmmf?"

"What did you do, during the weeks I was unconscious?"

Dean turned to look at the ceiling. "I just _drank_."

_A/N: Now, I really hate begging for reviews, but thing is, I __**really like **__them, and I'm sort of desperate at times for feedback. You can have imaginary cookies and a hot balloon ride over the Pacific for your trouble. _


	4. Crowley's Existential Crisis

Trying to help Castiel was like trying to navigate a minefield, blindfolded and with a busted leg. It's not that at times he didn't seem genuinely grateful for assistance, for the gentle pointers on how to do everyday things like make coffee and load a gun. But other times, the help wasn't welcomed, and the brothers had to thank their lucky stars that Castiel didn't have his Grace anymore, because his wrath was still something terrible to behold.

Sam remembered one instance in particular, muffled but angry-as-all-hell yelling coming from the bathroom, before Dean stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

"…What?" Sam asked, and maybe it was a bad idea, because Dean looked like he wanted to throw something, but it was early morning, Sam had been awake for all of ten minutes, and he was still suffering from the aftereffects of the migraine he'd had the night before. And the night before that. Not to mention the sleeplessness brought on by Castiel's continuing, and unfailingly noisy nightmares.

Dean jabbed a finger in the direction of the bathroom. "Don't go in there, Sammy," he warned. "He's _shaving_. And God forbid someone try to help him do it _right_."

Sam's Mitigation Alert was going off like crazy, so he decided to intercede before Dean went back in and started demonstrating _other _uses for razors. "He's just frustrated, Dean. He probably feels like we're coddling him." There. Even half brain-dead, Sam could be Insightful.

"He's stubborn and idiotic, you mean," Dean huffed, but the murderous glint in his eyes had dimmed somewhat, and that meant Success. _You mean like you? _Sam wanted to say it, he really did, but he couldn't. Not before he was armed.

And Dean was right in a sense, because when Castiel returned downstairs, sullen, two hours later, his face was covered with shallow cuts, and it was definitely the Smiting Glare he was aiming at all of them. There was no mistaking it.

The surprising thing was that it was Sam that Castiel gave the most leeway, the one he allowed to help the most. Maybe it was partly because they were both hurting, but Sam knew they bonded primarily over their mutual lack of appreciation for Dean's mother-henning. Because while there were some things, like Dean popping up out of nowhere to massage Castiel's shoulders, muttering about _kneading a granite block _and _trying to prevent rigor mortis _while Castiel smiled into his coffee, or like Dean materializing with a plate of spicy food for Sam, too hot to really be edible because somehow their father had instilled a belief in him that spice was medicine and the only way to recover from illness was to purge the system, repeatedly…

Well. Even for that, most of the time his over-concern for the pair of them was just plain suffocating. Which was one of the reasons why Sam was itching for a case, instead of holing himself up to complete the research they were, presumably, doing. He had the sense they were really just hiding, staked out in a sort of five-star bomb shelter while the first reports of fallen-angels-turned-killers filtered into the news. It was strange, or perhaps it wasn't, that while Castiel had been the first to suggest the possibility, he was somehow the last to believe it. When convinced, he'd only said _My family, _before disappearing for hours on the deserted streets around their home. They'd put a tracker on his phone after that.

"Looks like there's a vamp nest in Missouri," Sam announced one day, flipping off their newly-installed T.V. There were gruesome deaths all over the news, and he _knew _they wouldn't normally be sitting on their asses watching it happen. He wanted to do _something, _even a small something, if only to blow off some steam. Nest-cleaning? Good way to do that, and it was a very Dean-like sentiment. He expected his brother to leap at the suggestion.

He didn't. He folded the ancient newspaper he was reading deliberately, looked him up and down in that annoying way he had, as if checking for further health symptoms. "Sam. Vamps are kind of the _least_ of our concerns."

"I get that. But I don't think we can ask Cas to help us fight his own family—" Sam ignored Dean's wince "—especially when we're not even sure how we're gonna handle them. He hasn't been on a real hunt, and I think it would be good to give him a trial run, while we're still. Still figuring this out." He left out that he was feeling desperate to get out himself. It was easiest to make the issue about something other than him.

"He's been on a hunt before," Dean re-unfolded the newspaper, as if he'd lost interest in the conversation. It ticked Sam off. "Cartoons, remember?"

"You know what I mean. Since he fell. I've been taking him to the shooting range, training with him, but Dean. He's feeling claustrophobic." Here Sam decided to ditch the Castiel angle. "Hell, Dean, _I'm _getting cabin fever, and I _know _you can hardly stand to go two weeks without stabbing something. The Men of Letters have nothing on what's going on now and you know it. We should be out there saving people, instead of sitting here pretending we're making any headway."

"Sam." Apparently Sam's tirade was enough to merit a glance up from the oh-so-interesting yellowed newspaper. "We're not ready yet. Cas, he's being hunted by beings a hell of a lot more powerful than he is right now, and for all we know, he's going to be targeted the minute he's more than five miles away from here. You can't fool me into thinking that you're up for hunting again, either. You're doing just as badly as you were with the Trials, and if you're going anywhere, it should be to a hospital." He sighed. "We're just not ready."

There it was again. The cloying concern. Sam wondered if it would be immature to start a fistfight right then. Probably, but if he whipped Dean he could at least convince him he was cleared for fighting. "We'll _never _be ready, if it's up to you," he snarled instead. "That's it. I'm tired of you pulling this crap, I'll take Cas and we'll leave you to organize your garden parties, or whatever it is that you're doing."

Dean watched his brother walk away, an angry retort on his lips, that remained unspoken because Sam was right, he'd saved his ass more than once even when he was delirious and fever-stricken, and Dean really didn't doubt that he could handle himself in a fight if it came down to it. Especially if he had Dean covering him. And he knew it was impossible to keep Sam and Castiel there, safe as it was, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this borrowed almost-peace with his family was the only one he was going to get.

"Alright!" he finally called out. "But I'm coming with, dammit." His heart sank even as he said it.

oOo

Crowley could see what was going to happen. It was like Karma had come back from the dead and decided to give him the biggest bitch-slap of all time, because if his situation didn't just mirror Meg's perfectly… well, then he wasn't Crowley. So he did exactly what Meg had so wisely done, when he'd wrested power from her and the Lucifer-loyalists. He ran like heaven from Abbadon with his tail between his legs.

Which left him, not only unemployed, but confronted with the type of existential crisis no self-respecting demon should ever have to endure. Namely, _was _he even still a demon? It was getting difficult to quash his sympathetic impulses, which were growing ever more annoyingly persistent. He had, for instance, felt inclined to give change to a beggar earlier that evening. He'd managed to give him a swift kick to the head instead, but it was a close scrape. If he didn't watch himself, he might become _altruistic_. And his recent demotion to Hell's Most Wanted begged the question: should he even be fighting it? The idea of redemption, so strong a few weeks before, still niggled at the back of his head.

A few dozen shots of bourbon at a dirt-encrusted bar in Cincinnati, (because bourbon is a sure-fire way to cure oneself of existential crises) and he felt like he was coming close to a solution. He'd watched enough cable television to know the nuances of the Anti-Hero trope. If he wanted to, he could be Good. But he didn't start having to act Good, not all the time. Problem solved.

Feeling significantly better about things, he walked out of the bar, leaving his sizable tab unpaid. Kevin Tran was the next step. Kevin Tran would have his Quest.

To the night air, he made a fateful declaration. "You're not Batman, Winchester. _I am._"

oOo

Abbadon's coronation was a much-celebrated affair. The fact that she had literally just walked out of the past made her only more popular in the polls, because demons are naturally the reactionary sort and have vehemently opposed Progress since the invention of the wheel. A celebration the likes of which Hell had (luckily) never seen was had when she abolished the Line System Crowley had instituted for the damned. The cheering when she removed the air conditioning in the Ninth Circle was enough to make a soul's ears bleed, and in fact several souls did find their brains melting because of it.

Still, Abbadon wasn't stupid, and she hired a trustworthy demon to tutor her on the Internet and give her the Spark Notes on the past few decades, while she struggled with the various methods of surveillance Crowley had dreamed up during his time at the helm. _Modernity is __**complicated**_, was her frequent complaint, and the more time passed, the more she actually found herself respecting the traveling-salesman's creativity. It was almost too bad that she had to have him hunted down and destroyed. He would have been a priceless addition to that R&D team he'd left for her.

Her priority though, wasn't Crowley. It was the fallen angels, who were showing, her advisors told her, the first signs of mobilization. Not to say that most of them weren't running around like chickens with their heads cut off, but there was also the nebulous beginnings of a coherent organization forming, and that was Not Good. Soon, they'd be trying to break back into Heaven, and if Hell wanted to keep a monopoly on the Reaper business, along with the souls they gathered, they had to prevent that from happening.

The solution was, thankfully, one of those timeless strategies Abbadon had no need to study up on. Massacre.

oOo

During that first hunt, they learned several things. First, that even as a human, Castiel killed like a goddamn machine, downing one bloodsucker after another, utilizing his machete like a weedwhacker, and with just about the same amount of emotion. He'd been training obsessively since his return, and this particular manifestation of it was frankly a little frightening. Angel strength might be gone, but his human strength was nothing to shake a fist at.

"Cas," Dean called, in the middle of the fight. Castiel grunted in response, but Dean didn't follow up on his thought. What could he say? _Cas, could you maybe be a little less efficient? It's creeping me the fuck out. _No. That wouldn't fly, especially not when there were half a dozen blood-crazed monsters lunging at their throats.

They also learned that the new hunter still had little sense of his own mortality, because he wouldn't dodge hits he could have dodged, he'd just take them, one after another. Sam watched, horrified, as the man was thrown off of a rafter, but he just got up again, kept whacking, whacking, whacking.

He'd broken his foot in the fall, and they only found out about it after the fight was over. The adrenaline wore off of Castiel in a rush, and he collapsed, gasping.

_Sorry, _he'd said to Dean, when the yelling started, and they began wrestling him to the car. _I hadn't noticed._

_**A/N: After some reflection, I found that I actually don't mind begging for reviews at all. I'm actually quite shameless about it. Reviews are like diamonds. A few of them, precious, but a lot of them? The makings of a multi-billionaire. Which is better? You tell me.**_


	5. The Past Will Bite You in the Ass

"How long?"

It was a sensible question, really. They needed to know how long Castiel would need the cast, how long he'd need to keep off of it before possibly hunting again. It wasn't like Dean asked because his chest was constricting in panic, like he was waiting, hoping to hear anything other than _two months._ Because that timeline wasn't going to happen. He'd made sure of that three years ago.

And yet. And _**yet**__. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up—here._

"His talus—the place where his foot connects to his leg—has a fracture, but it hasn't gone all the way through. He's lucky for that, but it's still going to be a while before he can put any weight on it. Eight to twelve weeks would be my estimate." The doctor's words were crisp, businesslike. Dean excused himself so he could go be sick.

_ Nonononononono…_

oOo

Sam came back from his supply run, his eyes just slightly worn and his breath puffing too noticeably. He hadn't even been jogging. "Man, these prescriptions they wrote up for him… heavy duty stuff," he said, plunking the pill containers on their map table. "Better than what I have. Think he'll notice if I steal a few?"

Dean lifted his head to look at him, his expression hopeless, and Sam did some rapid backtracking. He had the problem diagnosed within seconds. "Wait… you don't think… no. Dean, he's not going to go off the deep end because of a foot injury. He's tougher than that."

"Zechariah… he said this was gonna happen if I said no to Michael. That future, Sam…" He shook his head. "You were gone, too. Does this mean I'm, what if I lose—"

"Things are different than they were then," Sam interrupted fiercely. "Lucifer is locked up, and I'm not going anywhere. Give us a little credit, here."

So Dean did. And Sam was right, because Castiel didn't start popping pills like his future version had.

He didn't take them at all.

Several tense days later, and Sam was urging him to confront him about it. _He __**has **__to be feeling the pain, _Sam said. _You talk to him, _Dean begged. Sam had only looked at him with the patented _Are-you-a-complete-idiot-Dean? _expression, the one that made his face look like a prune, and Dean found himself trudging to the weight room.

Normal people, you see, when injured will mooch around and watch television, read books, take bubble-baths, do any combination of relaxing activities. Not Castiel. His convalescence consisted of bench pressing, pull ups, and working out his one good leg. It consisted of not eating, not sleeping and then crying when he _did _sleep, so that Dean just ended up pulling a chair by his bed to use as his new permanent sleep station, so that he could poke him awake when things looked to be getting bad. It consisted of only talking in monosyllables, so that extracting a _Good morning_ from him was enough to drain him of speech for the entire day, all the way up until _Good Night._

It was frustrating for all of them, had Dean crawling the walls and Sam PMS-ing all over the place. It was toxic. But that didn't mean Dean wanted to talk to him about it. Sam was more cut out for that sort of thing.

Nonetheless…

"Hey, Cas," he said cautiously, stepping into a quiet room. Castiel didn't believe in working out to music. It was the bench press today, he noticed, and Castiel had been at it long enough to have soaked Dean's ratty tee with sweat, to be breathing harshly, his face contorted in pain. Dean did a double take when he saw just how much weight he'd put on it. _Holy shit._

"Shouldn't you have a spotter?" he said. As per usual, the former angel didn't respond, but he allowed Dean to help maneuver the bar back into its slot, let him help him sit up to make room for Dean on the bench.

Dean allowed himself to bask in the silence for a minute, wishing he could procrastinate having this conversation a little longer. But he couldn't. "Why aren't you taking the meds, Cas," he sighed.

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, quiet for long enough that Dean was seriously wondering if he was going to force him to ask again.

"Cas."

"Because I'm weak, Dean." It was a sudden declaration, and so unexpected that it floored Dean. _What? _He'd thought a lot of things about Castiel, (and plenty of it wasn't exactly flattering) but he'd neverthought _that_. Saying Castiel was weak, was like saying the sun wasn't bright, like saying cars didn't drive and Justin Bieber produced music fit for listening to. Just, completely wrong.

In an eloquent expression of these thoughts, Dean said, "…What?"

"I'm weak," Castiel repeated, with too much conviction. The force of his gaze still had the power to pin Dean down, a butterfly on a board. "I'm fragile, and I don't… I don't want to be. I don't want to need things," he gestured at his cast. "Like this. And the medication. It's so. It's human."

Dean took a moment to digest this. He was floundering for words now, lost in a sea of _something _that begged utterance, but he couldn't. Words were traitors. He could only pinwheel his arms, kick his legs and hope to tread water. "Well, that's what you _are,_" he said bluntly. "Human. But, Cas. It's not all pain, it doesn't have to be. We have some good things." And damn, when he said it he almost believed it himself.

Apparently Castiel did too, because he fixed Dean with a weighty stare. "…I know." _I just wish I didn't have to rely on that._

oOo

Heroism was not all it was cracked up to be. Crowley _had _avidly read the Winchester Gospels, but it was still unpleasant when he made the discovery that most people were just plain ungrateful after being rescued.

He posed as a janitor to kill his first ghost. It was literally painful to ditch the Armani suit, but he did, and even though he saved everyone by burning the thing's bones, his conduct at the workplace was deemed "unacceptable," and he was laid off soon after. Crowley figured it wasn't really going against his new Moral Code to curse his former bosses into losing all of their pubic hair. They needed to learn to appreciate what they had.

As for Kevin, he proved more difficult to track than Crowley had originally anticipated. Apparently, even without the shelter of Hunters, when Kevin Tran was free from the incompetence of his mother he was blessedly good at hiding. But track him Crowley did, all up and down the continent, and then even going as far as Chile. It was there, in its Mediterranean center, where Crowley finally caught up.

Abaddon did, too.

Crowley crouched in the bushes, peered in through Kevin's cottage window in possibly the most undignified position he'd ever been in to watch the confrontation. It wasn't like he could go in. There were Devil's Traps all over the place, which prevented him from entering, even if it didn't prevent Abbadon.

The surprising thing was that the Prophet actually seemed to be having a civil conversation with the whore. There was a lot of head nodding, and at one point, when Abbadon reached out her hand, Boy Wonder just gulped and… took it. No fight or anything, and the pair of them disappeared.

Crowley sat back, plopping his newly-suited butt in the dirt and mulled it over. Obviously the Prophet was coerced. Crowley liked to believe he knew the little bugger, and Tran did not, _would not _deal with an agent of Hell unless he had no other option. There had to be something going on, for the Prophet to go skipping off with one of the First Fallen.

Crowley resolved to find out what that was, and, if possible, rescue the bloody nuisance from Abbadon's clutches. He was already a traitor and a rogue; he might as well embrace the part.

oOo

There are two things you can do, when you've been locked out of your home. The first and easiest is to find a locksmith, but if that locksmith is Michael and currently locked up himself, well, that narrows your options a bit. The second thing you can do is Break In.

Luckily, Harut knew exactly how to do that. There were advantages to being in the thick of Earthly magic circles since the time of Babylon, and with enough angels similarly cast out and desperate to return, she finally had the firepower on Earth she needed to pull it off.

So slowly, slowly she gathered the others around her, and began making preparations to open the Gate. It didn't matter anymore to the angels when one Fell, or why. What mattered was getting back. So it was that Harut, pious, faithful Harut, who was cast out of Heaven before even the last batch of fledglings was born, was able to lead them.

oOo

Every night, Castiel dreamed of death. Not capital-letter D Death, the pale, sarcastic, pizza-eating Death. He dreamed of the death that tore your heart and lungs out, the one that stole the people closest to you.

Sometimes it was his brethren, the angels. He was killing them, during his own little reign of terror. Or they were dying miserably, alone, stranded in an unfriendly world where Castiel lacked the power to help him. He'd try, yes, but every time he came close to one of them; _No, Castiel, _and they would light up. He'd be forced to shield his eyes then, only able to look back at them when they had become corpses.

Sometimes it was Sam, sucking in a last breath and then gone, the Trials, however incomplete, sucking the life from him. Other times, he was jumping into the Pit, Castiel yelling _No, Sam, I can't bring you back this time, don't, _but Sam would just smile sadly at him. _No, Cas. _And leap.

And sometimes it was Dean. It wasn't ever entirely clear, why he was dying. All Castiel knew was that he was powerless to stop it. Tonight was one of those dreams, and Castiel didn't know that he was shaking under the covers. He did feel it, though, when the bed dipped next to him.

"Mmphfunng?" It was good to be woken up. He wondered if it was Dean, telling him to _shhh, shhh Cas, _again. Because Dean was alive, he wasn't dead right now. He could cry for gratitude.

He felt the covers shift, and a heavy weight settle next to him. "Can't take it, Cas," Dean murmured. "That chair is so uncomfortable. Impossible to sleep on. Hope you don't mind."

"Dnnnmnngph."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Castiel drifted again, and when he woke up, for the first time he could remember, his mind was clear. No nightmare-cobwebs he needed to brush away.

The bed was empty, and Castiel blinked around at his room. _Oh. _Was that what they called a good dream?

oOo

Sam didn't have all that many nightmares anymore. Flashbacks to his time in the Cage used to be a near-constant occurrence, but since Castiel's intervention at the psych ward, he'd largely forgotten his time there. There were bits and pieces, but he kept these squashed down in the farthest recesses of his brain, where they couldn't bother him. Most of the time, it was enough.

Except tonight was different. Tonight he dreamed of Adam.

The younger man just appeared, springing half-formed out of the corners of Sam's subconscious. _Guess who's back, _he said, smile feral.

It was the sort of dream where Sam knew it was a dream immediately, but although he focused, tried to change his train of thought and gain control over the dream like all of the manuals told him he could, Adam stayed, and Sam's mouth opened of its own volition.

_Adam, _Sam said. He paused. _I don't understand. You're in the Cage._

_ I'm out now, no thanks to you. No angels or Reapers to airlift __**my**__ ass out; I had to do it the hard way._

_ That's not possible. There's no way._

_ What, I can't make unlikely comebacks too? That against the rules? Trust me Sam, I'll tell you all about it when you see me again. I'll tell you right before I kill you._

_ Why would you want to kill me? _It was a stupid question, and Sam knew it.

_You left me behind, didn't you? To rot in the Cage, __**forever**__. You never even tried looking for a way to rescue me._

_ It's impossible to get out._

_ You did. I did. Doesn't look very impossible, if you ask me. Just tell me, Sam, what was so important that you couldn't look for me? Am I really so easy to forget? Was it that girl you were with?_

_ How could you…?_

_ I know plenty, Sam. I've actually been out for a while now, but you see, there's this thing, that I really want to do. I lied when I said I wanted to kill you. I want to throw you back in the Cage. Getting ready for that, it took time, preparation. But I'm ready now. And I thought, hey, how about a little fair warning? No good to put you in there with no idea why, right? And I never got the opportunity to hunt while I was alive._

_ This isn't a dream, is it? How are you doing this?_

_ I'm not an idiot, Sam. You're not going to get a convenient little villain-monologue from me, telling you how I'm doing everything. But this is fun. I think I might do it again. How long do you think you can keep from sleeping?_

_ I've found I can go a pretty long time._

_ I guess you'll have to conk out at one point though, right? I'll be here then. Loved the conversation, Sam. Now wake up._

Sam woke up retching. Raising a shaky hand to his forehead, he felt it; his fever had spiked, again. _Not what I needed, _he thought. _Not on top of everything._

He flopped out of bed and made the familiar trek to the bathroom. _Adam. _The other brother he'd failed.


	6. Sandman's Heyday

"So… what are we thinking? Not—not hallucinations. Right?"

Dean felt he needed this private aside with Castiel, too afraid to voice his doubts in front of his brother. _Sorry, Sam, but I think you might be going batshit crazy. Again. _It just wasn't the sort of discussion one could have comfortably.

Thankfully, Castiel wasted no time in quashing those doubts. "I believe that what your brother is seeing is real. What exactly that is, remains to be seen."

"So, ghost, specter? Dammit, Cas, give me something to work with!"

"I don't have all the answers, Dean," the former angel said, narrowing his eyes. Oh. So he was getting pissy now. "But I don't think that, if indeed Adam escaped from the Cage as Sam believes, he would be able to do so whole, not and retain any sort of functionality. Whatever Sam is seeing would have to be only a fragment of Adam's psyche."

"So you _do_ think he got out."

"I don't _know_, Dean." He let out a deeply frustrated sigh. "Maybe. Although I don't know how it's possible—"

"Awesome. Because we really need to worry about this, too. The kid can barely walk in a straight line, now we have to think about things renting out space in his gray matter…" Dean paced up and down the hall, scuffing the already-worn carpet with his slippers.

"If I could get inside of his head, then maybe—"

"We have a stash of African Dream Root downstairs. And you're not going, _I_ am. Broken foot sort of disqualifies you, sorry."

oOo

Sam didn't seem to like the Plan.

"So, you're going to go dreamwalking—and not to wake me up, but to kill Adam, or—whoever's dreamwalking with me already?" He shakes his head. "Dean, do you have any idea how crazy you sound right now? We know next to nothing about what's going on. If Adam's really going to communicate with me every time I take a nap, shouldn't I at least try to coax some information out of him first? Like, I don't know, _how he got out?_"

"Nuh-uh. Nope. Sam, he's inside your_ head_. That's dangerous enough already; he could kill you in your sleep. Like Jeremy, and from what you've said, he has a hell of a lot of motive to do just that. What do you think you're gonna do? Talk him down?"

"Maybe?" Sam looked down at his hands for a second, before looking back up at his brother. "If, if it is Adam… I don't want to kill him, Dean. He didn't deserve to be down there any more than I did, and, and when I got out… I forgot about him. Even when I got my soul back, when I had all that time, I never even considered trying to bring him back. I guess… I guess I feel responsible."

"I disagree."

Both brothers started a little at Castiel's words, and turned to stare at him in a single, synchronized motion.

"Sorry?" Sam said.

The former angel limped on over, tossing his crutch aside with a certain measure of disgust as he settled himself into one of the armchairs. "Adam Milligan was not, as you say, a 'stand up guy.' He was willing to bring about the Apocalypse, kill millions upon millions so that his mother would be resurrected. You, on the other hand—" he smiled slightly, looking at Sam "—were a hero. You threw yourself into the Cage in order to save humankind. You deserved to be saved, and—I tried. Adam brought his fate upon himself. I personally feel no qualms about killing him if he has escaped and poses a threat."

Sam's mouth had fallen open. He didn't know whether to feel horrified, that Castiel's sense of morality was still so black and white, _no one deserves the Cage, no matter what they did, _or whether to feel guilty.Because hadn't he just done the same thing? Condemned millions upon millions, in the future, to be possessed, killed, damned to Hell by demons because he couldn't finish the Trials. _Some hero I am._

He swallowed, and was surprised to find Dean nodding. "He's right, Sam," he said. "Now, I wanted to save him before, too—I don't think anyone really deserves to be down there—but he's made some lousy decisions, and frankly I'm not gonna try and save the guy who tried to end the world if he's out and threatening you."

Sam's eyes skipped between his brother and Castiel, who were both wearing identical expressions of determination. The _you-listen-to-me-Sam-or-I'll-make-you-live-to-regr et-it _look, when compounded like that, was truly formidable, and made him remember why he actually didn't like it so much when they teamed up. He blew out a breath.

"It's still my dream, and I think we should talk to him first."

"Sure thing. You do that, Sam." Dean wore a tight grin. "I just hope your dreams have a lot of weapons."

oOo

"I think you'll be comfortable here," Abaddon said sweetly, sweeping a hand over the suite she'd had prepared. "There's a Jackoozie, flat-screen T.V., ex box, and excellent room service. We even disconnected the intern's et and are holding onto your phones to keep outside distractions to a minimum."

Kevin knew what that meant. _Try and contact the Winchesters and you're dead, Prophet or no._

"So… just the angel bomb recipe?" he asked, taking it all in. It was fancier than the boat, when it came to cells.

"And anything else you find useful. You may use your discretion, and meanwhile we will be looking into alternative means of warfare. Take your time; nothing must be overlooked."

"And you're sure about this ritual that they're going to be doing?"

A glimmer of fear flickered on Abaddon's face, soon replaced by her usual seductive confidence. "It's in everyone's best interests to have them eliminated," she confirmed.

oOo

_"Dude, you have weird dreams."_

_ Sam glared. "I do not."_

_ "You do. Don't most people dream about settings they've actually been in? I mean, I do. But like—what the fuck is this?"_

_ They were standing on a flat white platform, suspended on seemingly nothing, over a wide expanse of empty air and crisscrossing, unevenly spaced black wires. On another, smaller white block, a long ways away and a little lower, was a stick. With a head on it._

_ "Very Lord of the Flies," Dean commented, pointing. "Isn't that __**your **__head?"_

_ It was. But it was a younger version of Sam impaled on the stick, a Sam from three, or possibly more, years ago. Sam knew without looking, because he'd had this dream before. "Where's Adam?" he wondered aloud. "And if you don't like the dream, change it."_

_ Dean held up his hands. "Hey, I've never tried something like that before. How about you change it?"_

_ Sam shut his eyes, and the dream shifted. "__**What the hell, Sam?! This is weirder!**__"_

_ Sam opened his eyes. They were standing a ways away from two volcanoes, sitting side by side. Each was emitting different-colored glowing bubbles into the tropical night air; the first green, and the other red. Sam felt the weight of a remote in his hand._

_ "I touch this button, and a hole will blow into the sides of those volcanoes," he explained. "Then the bubbles will be mixed together."_

_ "I'm not gonna pretend that made any sense," Dean said._

_ Sam pocketed the remote. He only made it past this dream one way; he might as well stick with it. "Doesn't matter," he said. "If Adam's gonna make us look for him, I say we go look."_

oOo

Castiel scowled at the two men, sleeping seemingly peacefully sprawled over the living room furniture. It was his job to watch them, so that _if anything weird starts happening with Sam, you can wake him up. _As far as Castiel could tell, if something strange did start happening with Sam, he wouldn't be _able _to wake him up. Which meant he was being completely useless, sitting here.

He rapped unhappy fingers on his cast, willing it to disappear, for his foot to heal. If he had sufficient control in the dream, maybe it wouldn't matter that it was broken. But he had a job to do here, pointless as it was. He counted freckles, counted breaths, counted seconds and pretended he couldn't feel the walls closing around him.

oOo

_ "You can't even dream up normal vegetation?"_

_ Dean flicked away a branch from yet another breathing tree. "I'm gonna break a twig, and they're gonna start talking, am I right? This the Inferno, or something?"_

_ "I didn't know you read that."_

_ "What can I say? At one point in my life I was very—" he squeaked as a leaf began glowing "—interested in Hell."_

_ "I read somewhere that creative dreams are a sign of intelligence. Maybe this just all goes to show how smart I am." Sam grinned as this earned him the desired snort._

_ "Please. If anything, this is a sign of poorly-contained insanity. Bet even Cas doesn't dream up things as crazy as you."_

_ "What does he dream about? Cas, I mean." Sam dodged a moving root and scrutinized his brother. "Have you ever asked him?"_

_ "No. You see me sharing my dreams with people?" He shook his head. "If he wanted to talk about it, he would. I'm not gonna push."_

_ "Maybe you should. Dean, it's not normal, the way—"_

_ "Nothing about this is normal," Dean snapped. "There's not much I can do about it." He walked forward a few more paces, then stopped as he noticed his brother wasn't following. "Sam?"_

_ "I think I see him. Over there." Sam pointed at a shadowy area some yards ahead._

_ "Shit." Dean ran his hands over his jacket, patted his jeans. He sent Sam a betrayed look. "You couldn't dream me up a gun?"_

oOo

_"Knew you'd find me," Adam said smugly, watching Sam step into the clearing. "You can't stay away, you __**want **__this. Figures. You never tried hiding in the Cage, either. Oh. You brought your brother, too. Hey, Dean." He seemed unconcerned with the murderous glare being directed at him._

_ "Your brother too, Adam. Remember?" Sam studied him, looking for signs of the broken psyche Castiel and Dean told him would be there._

_ "I told you before, I'm not buying into your family crap. I mean, being related to you, look where it got me." He smiled, and _there _it was. Madness. Sam could see it. "Brothers in the trenches, what did that amount to?"_

_ "How are you here, Adam?" Dean growled. Adam let out an exaggerated yawn._

_ "Same old questions, same old answer. I'm not telling. I'm afraid he isn't going into the Cage today, but I got a __**great**__ idea when Sam-boy picked this dream. Watch." _

_ He reached his hand up into the air, and the brothers watched as one of the glowing red bubbles floated down from above. It was actually very large up close, about half the size of Adam._

_ "Oh, no. You've got be kidding."_

_ "What? What?" Dean said, eyeing the bubble._

_ "He's going to pop it."_

_ "That's right." And he popped it._

oOo

_ "What the hell's going on, Sam? Why is the ceiling so low? Why are we dressed like prostitutes?"_

_ "It's part of the memory." Sam said, nudging the shut door halfheartedly. He knew it was locked. The room was small, dark and stifling, made out of rotting wood and had a ceiling so low Sam could hardly sit up without his head thunking into it._

_ "Memory?"_

_ "I don't know… if it's an organizational thing, or what," Sam said, digging his fingers into his arms. "Ever since I was little, I'd sometimes have the dream with the volcanoes. I'd try blowing up the one with the red bubbles, but then they'd infect the volcano with the green bubbles, changing their color, and I'd have to pop all the red ones before they completely took over the green. Then I'd rebuild the red volcano."_

_ "And that means what, exactly?"_

_ "The red bubbles, were bad memories, and the green ones were good. I always thought it was a sort of lesson. That I can't get rid of the bad memories. Just separate them."_

_ "Um, okay. And you never had this dream and just, popped the green bubbles the whole time? That's what I would do."_

_ Sam stared at him uncomprehendingly. "No."_

_ "So that means this is a bad memory." Sam nodded. "Okay, but Sam, I don't remember a time when either of us was—"_

_ "You weren't here."_

_ Dean blinked._

_ "This is one of my memories from the Cage."_

_ Oh. Shit._

oOo

_It went on. Memory after memory, and Adam seemed to be having a hell of a time at it. He'd show up in the last few moments, another bubble in hand, giggle a bit, and send them into the next one._

_ Some of them were memories Dean knew. Sam's first hunt, a couple of the fights with their father. Jess, who he'd heard enough about to feel like he'd been there himself._

_ Most of them he didn't. Most of them wanted to make him claw his eyes out and scream and scream because how the hell did Sam __**deal **__with all of this? He said something vague about lucid dreaming and a book be bought and controlling things, but all Dean saw was misery, enough misery and pain to send someone hurtling off of the nearest bridge, and the fact that this wasn't everything, that this wasn't the worst of it and Sam had been __**cured **__of that, sent shivers of cool terror down his spine._

_ But they caught up to Adam eventually. They caught him smack dab at the edge of the red volcano, and Sam pulled out the remote, like they'd planned. Looked in the bastard's eyes. Didn't press it._

_ So Dean yanked the device from him and pressed it himself. They hardly got to see the flames billow before they were both yanked out of the dream and awoke._

oOo

"Is he dead?" Castiel asked, glancing up from a book. A book. The little fucker was reading a book.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, shaky. "I—guess so. Die in the dream, die in real life, right? Adam got caught in an explosion."

Sam groaned from his couch. "I want to vomit."

"Bucket's next to you."

"Regardless," Castiel said, tapping the cover of his book. "I believe I have found something which will prevent this sort of thing from happening in the future. I suggest we all try it. It's a sort of—self-defense of the mind, intended to ward off mind control and safeguard sleep. Your Men of Letters are very knowledgeable."

Dean's body sagged into the couch. "Couldn't you have found that sooner?" he asked, voice strangled.

"I thought the purpose of the exercise was to kill Adam, or get information from him."

"Well—yes, but—"

oOo

Adam gasped as he awoke, chest heaving, sweat making his body clammy and cold. He watched the slowly revolving fan above him, willing his heart to slow down.

_Almost died. I almost died._

_ Again._

_ Another second, and…_

_ I'm gonna find him. He'll suffer._

_ No. __**Both**__ of them._

oOo

"What do you dream about, Cas?" Dean asked it softly, hesitantly, loosening his arms slightly from where they'd pinioned Castiel's. He had a habit of thwacking Dean in the face while he slept, when his arms were free to move. And this was the third time Castiel had woken up that night, muttering to Dean about _trying to change it_. He still cried at night, and Dean was tired of tear-tracks being the first thing the light hit in the morning. He wanted to fix it. He _needed _to.

"Nothing important," he lied, shifting. "I hope the herbs will prove effective." This referencing the recipe detailed in the Men of Letters book, which required a ground bamboo and chamomile mixture to be smudged behind the ear of the user to defend the mind from intrusion.

Dean sighed and let it be.

oOo

When Sam went back to sleep he was on the platform, staring, as usual, at the head.

_I'm sick of this dream, _he thought. But it was undisturbed, so, almost afraid of the spell breaking, he remained in the dream, and continued to stare at the head.

It felt like years before it was morning.

_**A/N: More rewards! Today's prize for reviewing is a limited copy edition of Sam's Dream Interpretation book! He's kept it secret from Dean for several years, so it smells like dirty socks, but it's extremely useful! Get yours now!**_


	7. Harut and Marut

"It's not exactly… practical," Dean said halfheartedly. "And it's expensive."

If he was being honest with himself though, he'd have to admit he was staring at the Buell Blast with every ounce of the naked lust Castiel was gazing at it with.

That was adoration, right there.

"I'd like very much to learn to drive one, Dean," Castiel said, lifting a hand as if to scratch at his new tattoo. Dean slapped it away. "The car is so…" _Confining?_

"It does get good mileage," Dean admitted, circling the bike. He wasn't even sure how they ended up here. He hadn't been paying attention and Castiel just—wandered, sometimes. He hadn't noticed how far they'd walked until he'd bumped into the guy, standing stock still and brick-like in front of this very store. Apparently, backseat of the Impala was out for him. He wanted a _motorcycle_.

"You do realize, these things are, they're pretty much death traps, right?"

Castiel flexed his recently-healed foot experimentally. "I'm sure I'll manage."

_Sure you will. You'll break every bone in your body before telling me otherwise. _"Well, all right then," Dean found himself saying. It was, after all, the first thing Castiel had mentioned _wanting_ since he became human. Clothes didn't interest him; he stole from Dean's wardrobe. Sam had gifted him with an iPod, but Castiel had just copied the music Sam and Dean had onto it, and used it infrequently. He ate what was in front of him, ordered what Dean ordered until Sam's conditioning kicked in and he began eating salads instead. Dean had begun to wonder if he was afraid of finding out what he liked, personally. He'd wondered if all the curiosity Castiel had for humanity just dissipated, when he was forced to become one.

But here it was, a sign that Castiel wasn't totally depressed, that he was exploring things. Dean felt like cheering. "Heh, you with helmet hair," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Can't say it'll be much of a difference."

oOo

It didn't feel like flying.

Castiel had entertained the notion, briefly, but humans were poetical by nature, and it would be a cruel hyperbole, to say that riding a motorcycle felt like flying.

It did, however, feel good. Almost free, almost fast, almost in control. Castiel reveled in these feelings, their approximations. He enjoyed speeding on ahead of the boys to their location for hunts, leaving them to their car-conversations, their music and sniping and laughter. The Impala was theirs, and this, this was his.

The leather riding jacket was now more or less a permanent fixture to his outfit when he didn't need to impersonate for a case. He suspected—no, _knew _that Dean still kept the trenchcoat someplace. He seemed to think it some sort of symbol, pursed his lips and crinkled his eyebrows together when Castiel first laid it aside. Like it bothered him. Castiel knew that it was a symbol, too. But whatever it was, whatever the coat meant to him was something he couldn't bear to think about. Dean could keep it—it wasn't his anymore.

Yet despite himself, he began settling into his new life. He'd jog with Sam in the mornings, slowing down when the younger man began to struggle for breath, slowing down until their jog became a long, lazy stroll and they talked about meaningless things, making up new excuses every day on why they couldn't run. He discovered he liked ice cream, three creams in his coffee, and long, long showers that usually ended with his hands wrinkled, Dean pounding on the door and telling him to come out before he drowned himself. He found out he enjoyed movie nights, and popcorn, and shoulder massages. It was all very surreal.

But there was one thing. It needed to be addressed, and so he did it in the only way he knew how, a day after a surprisingly unusual salt-and-burn, a day after being reasonably assured of his physical and mental, if not social competency as a hunter.

"We need to go back to Oklahoma City," he said, fiddling unconsciously with the greasy remains of his burrito. Sam shook his head at him, chiding. "There are omens there which indicate supernatural activity."

"Tornados, right?" Dean said vaguely. He was poking at his own food, rearranging French fries into miniature teepees on his napkin before gobbling the structures whole. Infinitely more disgusting than what he was doing, Castiel mused.

He nodded. "They've been touching down in unusually large numbers this year; this is only the most recent occurrence. I believe these phenomena are connected with my brethren. We should go."

Dean's fingers went limp around his French fry. "Cas."

Castiel stiffened, bracing himself for impact. "Something must be done. I need to—we've been avoiding it, Dean. I don't understand why."

"Wait… how do you think that they're linked?" Sam said, interrupting the tense staring contest that had ensued between the two. Someone had to. "I mean, I thought an increase in the number of tornados was just a sign of climate change."

"Climate change?" Castiel blinked at him, bewildered.

"Yeah, you know, like global warming."

The confusion evaporated off of Castiel's face, replaced with something strangely akin to disappointment. "I'm surprised, Sam," he murmured "That given your history, you can't tell immediately when explanations are invented to rationalize the supernatural. I'll pack up at the motel." He rapped his knuckles on the table twice before turning to leave.

Dean laughed openly at his brother's stricken expression. "He's lying," Sam muttered, eyes tracking the man across the diner. "There's no way. I wrote a paper—he's lying."

"Looked pretty serious to me," Dean said, when he could breathe again. He grinned at Sam lazily, the _how-about-that,-Granola-Boy-what-does-your-liberal -education-amount-to-now _grin.

Sam scowled, pushing his plate away. "In any case. We should follow him, before he goes running off to Oklahoma without us."

oOo

"I hate double-dipping places," Dean growled, stalking outside of the car to scowl at their motel of the evening. "It's unsanitary."

"We're on the other side of the largest city in the country, Dean. The likelihood of someone recognizing us is pretty slim. Besides, we're not going full FBI this time."

Dean grunted in agreement, nodding to himself when he spotted their room number, and Cas' bike parked nearby. "What _are_ we going as, anyway? News reporters? Storm chasers?"

"I guess Cas'll fill us in when we get inside. He's already set up camp; probably has some ideas."

Dean made an unconvinced noise, pulling their duffels out of the trunk. "About that."

"What? You don't think so?"

"I _think,_" the trunk slammed shut. "That he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. If what he's saying is actually going on… well, things that cause tornados like the ones this place has been seeing? That takes serious firepower. And if it's the angels… he's been talking warzone, man. It's like we're walking into a battlefield armed with a water pistol."

"Well what do you expect him to do?" Sam's hands lifted, made an aborted gesture. "It's not like he's going to watch his family kill each other and _half the population_ while they're at it. I know we're looking into ways of depowering them, but. I mean. What do you wantfrom him?"

"…I don't know." Dean peered at their window. It was lit up; Cas must be waiting inside.

"What?"

"Take your freaking duffle, Sam. I'm not your valet."

oOo

_"I don't want to go home!" Ramiel's pleading had taken a more insistent note over the past few hours. Harut might have let him be by now, if she had a choice._

_ She didn't._

_ It was so hard to find them, after they had fallen. She couldn't afford losing any she __**could **__locate, they were all needed. It wasn't her fault that Ramiel was one of the Watchers, not her fault he was still afraid of a return to Heaven._

_ "We've told you," she said, trying to make her voice gentle. She doubted it had much affect—Ramiel continued straining against his bindings, to the point where some of the other Fallen would occasionally step a foot forward, as if afraid he'd break loose. "It won't be the same. We can change Heaven when we return, we can rule differently if we so choose. I was cast out as you were, Ramiel. For the same reasons."_

_ "You don't understand. I can't go back. I have a life here, a family—"_

_ "What family, Ramiel? Just how many 'families' have you had since you Fell?" Harut crouched down, frowning over Ramiel's panicked yelp. "One. And we're going home. You must help."_

_ But Ramiel continued shaking his head vehemently, a whispered name on his lips that Harut guessed was his wife's. After looking around the room, and finding agreement in the faces of the other Fallen, she pulled out her blade again. Ramiel's eyes went flat. He was tuning out on her, she realized, to avoid the pain. That couldn't happen._

_ "There once was an angel I knew," Harut said conversationally, running the flat of the blade lightly over Ramiel's arm, "Whose name was Naomi. She found out some interesting things about torturing angels. That one has to put up safety guards, sigils in the area to contain the raw _force_ of the pain. Otherwise, an angel's scream would destroy everything around it."_

_ She trailed the tip up and down Ramiel's face, which had gone slack. "It made sense. When angels lose control of themselves, they cause destruction. Raphael, when he lost his temper, was known to depower entire countries. You're no Raphael, but your pain has been nothing to scoff at."_

_ And there it was. Ramiel's eyes flickered to life, panic knitting his eyebrows together. "You… you didn't…"_

_ "There are no sigils, Ramiel. But what is the destruction of a city to us? We've seen the downfall of civilizations."_

_ "You didn't… you…"_

_ "There were about twenty deaths. A woman and her child were pulled out of their car by the twister."_

_ "No…"_

_ But even for all that, even when Harut put in her everything, Ramiel wouldn't budge. He dissolved into a crying mess, begged her for death. It wasn't what she'd hoped for, and she pulled away in disgust. Marut, swathed in shadow, caught her eyes from across the room and they walked outside._

_ "Are you going to relieve him?"_

_ It was a euphemism. To 'relieve' an angel was to strip their Grace away. It was what had to be done, when Harut failed to bring an angel to the cause. It was also the highest crime one could do against an angel, so unspeakable that it hadn't been done for thousands upon thousands of years._

_ Things were different now._

_ "We need soldiers more than we need Grace. We have so few."_

_ "But we __**do **__need Grace, if there's any hope for pulling this off. I know how badly you want to go back, Harut. That's why I'm here. But you've got to recognize when you've lost a battle. Ramiel isn't going to take your side, no matter what your approach."_

_ "What good would it be, if only a handful return to Heaven with us?" Harut said. "The power isn't the point. I'm not finished."_

_ With that she walked away from him. She was in charge, after all, and it was her call to make. She'd made the calls before, too, though, and it was one of her decisions that had them cast out of Heaven in the first place._

oOo

Crowley was a salesman by nature, and while he hadn't necessarily gone undercover before, the amount of doublespeak and trickery involved bore definite relation to his previous employment.

"This is. Well." he said to himself, flexing the fingers of his new, female vessel. He figured Abaddon was a misandrist, and so had his favorite body stashed somewhere safe until his Mission was completed.

But demons didn't recognize one another based on what meatsuit they were wearing at the time. Crowley navigated through this obstacle with surprising ease; he was the son of a witch, after all, and it didn't take much to be able to rudimentarily cloak his true identity.

The rest of it, _that_ would be the issue.

"I'd like to apply for an entry level position in security," he said, trying to keep his natural swagger down to a minimum. He didn't outrank the demon staring somewhat vapidly at him right now; at least not to that demon's knowledge.

"Any recommendations? Previous employment?" All standard questions; problem was, Crowley wasn't entirely sure how to answer them.

"Murdered my most recent employer," he made up on the spot. "He passed over me to a man when it came time for internal promotions, so I castrated him and made him eat his own testicles." The story definitely had feminist overtones. Crowley felt proud of himself.

"New demon, then." The demon Crowley was talking to, (Mudgett, he believed) yawned widely and shuffled some papers around before speaking again. "How'd you kill him, then?"

"Stabbed him in the neck," Crowley answered promptly. Best to sound quick and efficient; he really needed the job.

"Mm." Mudgett made a guttural noise in the back of his throat, fumbled with some more papers, knocking a good stack over before sighing and looking back at Crowley.

"You see, there's been a lot of confusion, lately," he said by way of explanation. "You may not know this, but there's recently been a regime change, and since that the paperwork's been all out of sorts. I haven't been getting any sleep. You said your name's Maddie McLean?"

Crowley nodded, and Mudgett began massaging his forehead, clearly distressed. "I can't find your papers. I can't find any of the papers on any of the demon recruits for the last six months, _bless _Abaddon and her—tell you what. I'll just give you the job now, probation period fifty years. I find your papers, good, we'll talk again if there are any problems. Now just—I need to pick these up…"

Crowley smiled a bit as he turned away. So far, so good. Now he just needed to find a way to get himself assigned to Kevin.

oOo

Castiel was to man the camera while Sam asked questions, Dean writing down notes and squinting in a very official manner at their 'witness' every thirty seconds or so.

"Would you say there's anything particularly unusual about the twisters that have been affecting the area?" Sam said, trying to look friendly rather than menacing. It was slightly difficult, especially since the meteorologist they were talking to, Mike Morgan, was significantly shorter than Sam, and already wore a harrowed look, as if he hadn't slept for days. They'd had to catch him at his home, and he'd answered the door with a hunted expression, clutching a mug of coffee even though it was just 3:00 in the afternoon. He'd then beckoned them in with a jerky, almost abandoned gesture, and forgot to invite them to sit down.

"They told me there wouldn't be any more reporters," Morgan said hollowly, pinching his thin nose. "I've been getting death threats for this, did you know that? And I didn't even say… Shit. Don't write that down. I'm just tired, can we do this tomorrow?"

"We're only here to report on the tornados themselves Mr. Morgan," Sam said sincerely, taking the initiative to perch on a seat across from him. "Please. We have deadlines, and need to draw on your expertise."

It wasn't really a surprise when Morgan folded in on himself, sank deep into his hellishly expensive leather couch. Sam just had that power with people, the ability to gain instant trust.

"Fine. If it's just the tornados—not that other stuff." Morgan finally set down the coffee he'd been clutching, and gave Dean and Castiel an odd look, like he couldn't figure out why they weren't sitting, too. "It was the second wave of tornados to hit in two weeks," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "So many… some were just monsters. One flattened Moore. The one on Friday was 2.6 miles wide, an EF5—I've never heard of a tornado that big, there've never been tornados that big, it's the largest recorded. They triggered massive flooding —I just don't understand what's been going on this year. It's never been this bad. I live for crazy weather, that's why I live and work here, but—never this bad."

"Did the… did the tornados seem to have a point of origin?"

"The county line, just northwest of Will Rogers, is where we first saw them—Reed had a visual. God. And everyone started getting on the roadways, God. Least safe place to be, for a tornado. Twenty deaths. God."

There was a long silence after that, an uncomfortable one, and Dean found himself staring at the man, hunched over and defeated-looking in his fancy sitting room. It was sad in a way he couldn't place.

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," Sam said softly, moving to stand. "We won't take up any more of your time."

"I'm sorry," Morgan said, looking up at Sam imploringly. "I'm sure you can talk with the others at the station, I just. Goodbye."

"We understand."

They exited the house, Castiel practically flying to where he'd parked his bike. Dean caught his wrist.

"Where are you going."

An impatient tug, and Castiel was free. He mounted the bike, pausing just before putting his helmet on. "To the county line," he said.

"Without a plan? Without even talking it over with us? Fuck, Cas, we can't even be sure it _is _the angels—"

"I know it is." He wasn't even looking at Dean, just staring straight ahead, like he was reading code in the air. At any other time, Dean would have supposed that _was _what he was doing.

"Okay. Fine. You can't just go running off without an explanation though, Cas. You _know _that's not how we do things, we've been over this." Dean could feel the authoritative note creeping into his voice, the _I am the leader of this outfit, and you listen to me_ mentality kicking in. Castiel narrowed his eyes.

"One or more of my brethren have been causing natural disasters that have killed a score of people. They are quite possibly mad, or angry, or both, and I am going to stop them." His tone was brittle, challenging, and it made Dean's shoulders tighten with anger.

"Right," he said acidly. "Great plan. Are you even armed?"

"Of course." Castiel put his helmet on then, and roared away.

"Son of a _bitch!_"

oOo

_Bitch. Inbred whore. Yeti's little slut. Speck of unwashed cunt cheese._

Crowley kept an internal monologue going as Abaddon spoke to him, a monologue that grew increasingly vulgar and creative as her list of orders dragged on. Shakespeare had nothing on him, when he'd been going for a while.

Crowley had considered just killing her, smashing her ovaries, the whole shebang because he'd gotten this far, after all. It had been remarkably easy to infiltrate the ranks of Abaddon's most trusted confidants—Crowley was spot-on about the misandry, and all it took was a few graphic unsolicited public torture scenes for Abaddon to promote him to the position he was looking for. Why _not _kill her then, when Luck was rooting for Team Crowley again?

Easy. Part of the reason it was so easy to disguise himself as a lower-class demon was the uncomfortable fact that he _was _one, that whatever Sam the debilitated Moose did to him had sapped away much of his former power and left him enfeebled as well as emotionally unstable. You just couldn't pit the equivalent of a newborn demon against one of the First Fallen, element of surprise or no.

So when it came to Abaddon's orders Crowley was willing enough to take it in the ass, for now at least, because he was going to steal Hell's National Treasure and that was _worth it_. And that, that would only be the first step, because Crowley knew full well he was the most cunning demon to ever grace Hell, and Abaddon's days were numbered. Crowley never stayed an underdog for long, and he had a deep, abiding faith in his ability to come out on top of things. So when the world turned right-side up again, Crowley would be ready and waiting to grind Abaddon and all of Hell under his heel, 'till they were so many bug-guts smeared over cosmic space, because Hell never did him any favors, and he didn't take kindly to the lack of respect.

_Rabid, cotton-mouthed parasite-ridden facsimile of a—_

"That should be everything. You're dismissed, McLean." Abaddon flicked open an ancient golden pocketwatch, because apparently that was classy, and frowned. "Report back to me at o-dark-hundred hours."

Crowley smiled brightly, the plush lips of his new body stretching widely, violently over white teeth. "Yes, ma'am." And he sashayed over to Kevin's cell.

oOo

It wasn't so much plot twist as it was stupidity, Dean reasoned, when he found himself hog tied, for the umpteenth time, on the floor of a dirty abandoned warehouse. _The recession must really be a bitch for real estate, _he thought groggily when he came to, peering about reflexively for Sam. No Sam. Who knew where he ended up, in all the confusion upon arrival.

They all knew better than to get themselves into situations like this so regularly, Dean knew, but it was pretty much just as hard as it had always been to tail Castiel when he was in a hurry, and that had made them a bit sloppy, prevented them from strategizing, which Dean _knew _they should have done beforehand, and which he _knew _Castiel would normally have the presence of mind to think through. Frickin' Chess Master, Lead Strategist of Heaven had barreled straight into an unwinnable fight because he'd lost his head, and new human emotions or not, Dean was going to _murder _the bastard when they got out of this.

If they did make it out alive. Dean wasn't gonna make any bets, though, especially not when he could see what certainly looked like a fallen angel looming over Castiel, an entirely too interested look on her face and an angel-killing blade in her hand. Castiel had woken before Dean, was sitting up and staring her down with a ferocity that made _him _seem like the one with the deadly weapon. Deciding to play possum a little longer, Dean scanned the room. More angels, or so he presumed, but they were only vague shapes in the corners of the room and he couldn't get a definite number. The whole setup screamed _cult_, sent terrified little spasms up and down his legs. He began to fight against his bindings, but other than some indistinct shifting in the angels lining the dim walls, he didn't get much of a reaction from his captors. They were all focusing on Castiel.

"You're Castiel. _The _Castiel," the knife-wielding angel said wonderingly. Dean would have pinned her as Middle-Eastern, but the accent she spoke with bore traces of something he didn't recognize.

Castiel must have gotten used to infamy over the past few years. "I am."

"You're the one who started it all. Everything." The fallen angel began playing with the blade in her hands, and Dean's struggling grew more frantic. Where were his knives? No one ever took his hidden weapons off him; that was the entire point of concealing them. The most competent enemy Dean had yet run across in this regard was himself, in the future, and even then he'd been able to pry a nail from the floorboards and free himself.

No such luck this time.

Castiel was being a dumb fuck and had stopped responding to the angel, _rule #1 when in hostage situation: always keep them talking_, but it looked like she didn't need the prompting anyway. She just kept _talking, _all about bright-lit skies and destinies and wars, and Dean wasn't paying attention honestly, because he was focusing on a little something called _escape._

"Why are you here? Is it to help us?" she asked, leaning down to peer into Castiel's eyes. Dean supposed he should be grateful they hadn't run into a faction of angels that just wanted to murder Cas, but this seemed more sinister, somehow. He couldn't put his finger on it; it was a concern for later.

Castiel turned his head to look at him, and Dean's heart stopped. No. Was he thinking…?

He wasn't. "No," Castiel said, not quite steadily, slight fractures in the word. The angel, for whatever reason pounced on that, and even Dean could see the fire of zealotry in her words as she replied.

"Because you _can _help, Castiel. When you helped cast the angels out of Heaven, you finally accomplished what others have been trying to do all along. Stopped the fighting there. Required everyone to band together, for a common cause. Gave us a chance to start over, when we return, and make things better. You can help with that. I know you have power; if you are with us, we will succeed."

"I can't help anyone, sister," Castiel said. _Sister, _because Castiel no longer had the ability to recognize who of the Heavenly Host he was speaking to. "Whatever power you believe I have, it is gone now."

And apparently Castiel was remembering some of what Dean had mentioned to him, sparingly, of these types of confrontations. Dean could see him testing the give of the rope around his wrists, making as if to break his thumbs to escape. _You've got to finish it before the swelling starts, and it's your last option, because there's no way you can shoot or fight after doing something like that, _Dean had told him. This was looking increasingly like a last-options kind of situation. Where was Sam?

Dean decided to draw some of the attention away from Castiel. "What do you mean, _when we return_?" he asked. The angel ignored him in favor of fiddling more with the knife; he didn't illicit so much as a rustle from the shadowy figures standing to the side.

"We don't need your Grace, Castiel. We need _you, _a soldier, a _leader_. Together, with us, we can wrong the past. It's possible now to cleanse the corruption that was in Heaven. We can storm the Gate, destroy Metatron, rewrite the rules. You don't need your Grace, Castiel, for that. You can use another's."

She pulled out a bottle then, filled to the brim with a glowing substance Dean found beautiful at the same time he found nauseating. "This can be a gift, Castiel. You can come with us, never have to be human again. You can follow us, and make right your errors."

The worst part was, for a second Dean didn't know what he'd do. He had no idea, if Castiel would just nod, take the Grace and leave. Again. He saw Castiel's hands still from struggling against the rope, and prepared for the worst.

"_Where did the tornados come from?_" Castiel said instead, tone so commanding that Dean mentally reminded himself to tell him later that _you don't make demands _when you are_ tied up._

The angel hesitated, then looked at Castiel straight on. Steady, strong. The gaze of a general.

"An angel who would not come to the cause. He is, as of now, physically unharmed, and free. This is his Grace."

Castiel shook his head. "No," he said. Then louder, "_No. _I do not know how you propose to re-enter Heaven, but I cannot join you. Nor will I, ever. Grace is not ours to take, _persuasion _does not occur when one is tied up and threatened."

She snarled then, flashed her knife down to make a long cut down Castiel's arm. "I haven't made any threats yet," she snapped, voice carrying easily over Castiel's hiss of pain. Her eyes flicked over for the first time to Dean, and he had to consciously fight his instinct to recoil from it. For a moment she lost the look of a general, and all Dean saw was a cornered rat, ready to lunge at someone's throat.

"What is the real reason, Castiel," she said lowly, returning her attention to the bleeding man in front of her. "I've heard your story. This is _nothing _compared to what you have done, and it was almost justified then, too. There is no _nobility_, in times like this. There is _success_, and the means by which we achieve it. I need men."

"Find others."

"What reason do you have for avoiding this? You're _broken_, Castiel, you're human and I can see you dying, even now. What is it? Is it this farce of a human family you've conjured up for yourself? It's a lie, Castiel, and I should know—"

Castiel spit in her face.

Dean's eyes widened, and he forgot what he was doing, because Castiel. Spit. In. Her. Face. And she had a knife.

Dumb son of a bitch.

He didn't get much time to worry about the repercussions of that though, because Sam, their very own Deus Ex Machina came charging in, double angel blades whirling in a frenzy, yelling and rolling around so that he looked like five men all at once. Apparently it was only Dean's worry that made him incompetent, because Sam appeared to have avoided abduction. The angels by the walls backed off or into each other in confusion as Sam roared in; whatever army was being built up was obviously still untrained, unused to each other.

Dean heard a scream of pain from nearby, and Sam was cutting their bonds, drawing a sigil on the ground and chanting, before the room filled with golden light and they were suddenly someplace _else._

"Thank you, Henry Winchester," Sam gasped, as Dean registered they were in a parking lot. He heard a wet sound and a clatter as Castiel sucked in a breath next to him. Turning around, he saw the nameless angel's blade had been stuck in Castiel's arm, and he was now in the process of tearing his shirt to staunch the bleeding.

Before he could even move a muscle to help though, Sam's breath stuttered and stopped, and he fell to the ground spasming.

"Sam? SAM!"

_A/N: Now, this story is implausible first and foremost because no one but Mark Sheppard can be Crowley. It's just not right otherwise. But, I feel my credulity might be restored if I kill off both Harut and Abaddon soon. xD Thoughts?_

_Also, a moment to thank all my awesome reviewers! You light up my world like nobody else, the way that you review gets me overwhelmed, and when you PM my profile it aint hard to tell you don't know, you don't know you're __**beautiful!**_


	8. Developments

Having an attack and going into a coma for two weeks _once _ was bad enough; Dean had been a drunken wreck the entire time Sam was out, was on the verge of calling a real hospital and trying some more secular cures when Castiel showed up and Sam awoke.

Now that it had happened again, there was no question. Both Sam and Dean hated hospitals, but sometimes there was really no choice.

Castiel joined Dean in the waiting room after he was finished at the ER, arm heavily bandaged, worried expression mirroring Dean's. Dean wondered sometimes just how receptive Castiel was to what he was feeling, because much of the time it seemed like he just picked up on whatever emotion Dean was experiencing at the time and threw it right back at him.

They sat side by side, and Dean felt some of the tension in his posture ebb away. He heard Castiel's unspoken question.

"They're running some tests right now, said it would be a few hours. It's high priority. They wouldn't say much else, or maybe I just didn't understand them." He studied the ground as he spoke, squeezed his arms around himself.

"I'm sorry."

"No, Cas, don't. I." He shook his head, took a moment to collect himself. "I know you said there was nothing that could cure him, but. I've gotta try."

"Maybe I was wrong."

A short gurgle of a laugh escaped Dean. "Rare hearin' that coming from you."

"Nonetheless. Maybe… I wasn't all-powerful Dean, not even then. Just because I couldn't… maybe your human doctors will have a solution. If not them, someone else."

Dean leaned back, taking the words of comfort for what they were. "Thanks, Cas." He paused. "Thanks for staying." Here was the support he'd needed so badly all of last year, and with the events of the warehouse still fresh on his mind, he had to wonder how Castiel was here, with a mangled arm worrying with him about Sam, instead of zooming around the planet re-angelified on borrowed Grace. Maybe it should concern him, how terrified he was of Castiel taking off.

"I wouldn't leave you."

They lapsed back into silence then, and waited for the results to come in.

oOo

It wasn't pretty, either, when they did.

"We believe he has a rare form of cancer, although there are a few significant anomalies—"

Dean stopped hearing at the word _cancer_, the rest of the words blurring together, like he was hearing them from underwater.

_Cancer_. Did they just say…?

Castiel was talking now, asking something, and the doctor and he talked for a while before a sheaf of scans was handed to Castiel, before the doctor left them alone in the room with Sam's still, still body.

_Cancer._

"Dean."

Castiel was talking to _him_ now, but Dean wasn't listening. "_Cancer, _Cas," he babbled. "Of all the things, I never thought any one of us would end up with—with—"

He felt the sting as Castiel smacked him, hard, across the face.

"_Focus, _Dean. I need you to listen to me. _Your brother does not have cancer._"

Dean blinked vacantly at him. "But they just said—"

"They were wrong. Listen to me." Castiel's hand settled on Dean's shoulder, guiding him backwards and into one of the chairs by Sam's bed before pulling up one for himself, spreading the scan sheets over his lap. "As I understand, cancer is characterized by unrestricted cell growth, yes?"

"Right." Dean didn't know where this was going. His world had shattered, did Cas want to talk him through the gory details of it?

"That's not what's happening with Sam."

"What?"

"These MRIs are very useful instruments," Castiel commented, holding up one of the scan sheets. "Surprising how much they reveal."

"Cas!"

"There is a mutation, yes. And it is spreading. But it hasn't formed a tumor—whatever it is, it is literally changing Sam's DNA, and it's spreading. His body is fighting it off like an infection—I believe the doctor said it was similar to when a body rejects donated tissue after a heart transplant. That is the root cause of all of Sam's symptoms that we've observed so far."

"What does that mean?" As far as Dean could tell, all of the babble still meant that his brother was dying. "And what do you mean, his DNA is changing? How?"

"I mean that stopping the Trials didn't stop whatever is going on with Sam, it only slowed it down. I mean that Sam's illness isn't necessarily being brought on by the change itself, but by his immune system fighting it. An exaggerated allergic reaction, if you will. I don't know how exactly it's changing him, but." Castiel swallowed thickly. "I suggest that we let it happen. Shut down his immune system for a while and let it take place."

"You're not serious." Castiel stared him down, and Dean's mouth dropped open. "You're _serious! _Cas, Naomi said those Trials would kill him, and she was right! For all we know, his immune system is the only thing keeping him alive!"

Castiel's gaze was unwavering. "The other option, from what I've heard, is to send Sam through a treatment process that will likely not work, that may kill him all on its own, if not, at the very best, crippling him for life. Do you want to kill off the tissue that has already been changed? That is not something I wish on him, Dean."

"I'd take a small chance of him surviving over no chance at all!" Dean was standing now, voice dangerously loud, and Castiel was taking it, unfazed.

"I want Sam to live," he told him quietly. "And I believe to do that we will need to let this change—whatever it is—run its course. Even if Sam is different by the end, I would take all of him, over whatever shell of him might remain after the procedures that have been described to me."

Dean was vividly reminded of a similar argument they'd had, long ago, over his brother's soul. His jaw tightened. "You don't even know how he'll change," he said. "Even if what you're saying works, whatever we end up with—would it even be Sam? Can you guarantee that, really?"

Castiel's eyes dropped.

"You can't. Not that you'd care about something like that, would you? Didn't before." Okay, so that was low, but his heart was sinking, sinking, because he wanted Castiel to be right, but Castiel was rarely right about anything anymore and this was _Sam _they were talking about. They couldn't mess up. And if Castiel was looking at him with a heartbroken expression, well, he deserved it and a lot more. He deserved that from Dean. Except, he didn't, and Dean thought he _had_ forgiven him, and, God, he was just a bitter sack of angst, wasn't he.

And what if _he _was wrong? He couldn't put Sam through that, chemo and everything, not if there was a better way.

He sat back down heavily, blinking rapidly. He didn't know. Sam's life was hanging in the balance, and he had no idea what to do, to save him.

"I need to think," he admitted. "Is it—can I do that? I don't have to make a decision right now, do I? I can wait—a few hours?"

Castiel came over, gingerly put a hand on his shoulder. "The doctors said he is stable now," he said gently. "Do—what you feel is right." He left the room then, closing the door softly behind him.

_I'm sorry. _Dean mouthed the words, but he didn't have the courage to say them aloud.

oOo

_Sam opened his eyes, and the landscape was unfamiliar. All rolling, grey swells of ground, scraggly, skeletal black trees. Adam was looking at him, and he seemed delighted. That was a change._

"_Am I having a nightmare?" Sam asked, and no, he wasn't, or he wouldn't have to ask. He brought a hand to his ear unconsciously, wondering if the herbs had stopped working. Wondering how Adam was still alive. _Winchester luck, _he thought bleakly. _

"_Well this is new, Sammy. Now you're dreamwalking with __**me**__."_

_Sam brought his hand down. "That's not possible. I can't do that."_

"_To be honest," Adam said, "I didn't think we were this close. Maybe at one point, but." He gave Sam a critical look. "Why are you here? You came to search me out, again. Do you miss the Cage that much." He smiled, too widely to be genuine._

"_Never."_

"_It would make sense," Adam said, walking closer. Sam held his ground. "Spent centuries down there with me. You fought the angel, when he came to pull you out. Wondered at the time why he didn't give up, take me instead." He shook his head. "But you, you were so __**important**__, angel didn't so much as glance my way."_

"_I didn't." Sam didn't fight Castiel to stay in the Cage. He, he clung to him, he begged for rescue. Didn't he?_

"_You succeeded too, sort of. Angel couldn't get your soul." Adam began to laugh, loudly. "I couldn't—couldn't understand it," he wheezed. "I was the one who __**wanted **__out."_

"_You're lying. You're just trying to…" Mess with him. Adam was trying to torture him again, a different way this time. Because Sam didn't save him after he got out._

"_You're dreamwalking with me, Sam. What does that say?" Adam shook his head, eyes alight. "I wonder if we aren't both getting what we want, here. Me hurting you, you being hurt." He took another step closer. "Do you miss Lucifer, Sam? Do you miss remembering everything?" _

_Sam shut his eyes against the madness. Had he looked like that, when his wall broke?_

"_I remember Lucifer," Adam whispered. "I remember Michael—all of it. How about we look, huh. How about we see what it was like—after you left."_

"_How did you get out of the Cage, Adam."_

"_We're gonna go look." Adam tugged at his hand and smiled. "Follow me."_

oOo

Dean found Castiel by the vending machine, huffing in annoyance as his bill was spit out, again and again.

"It won't take it if it's folded. Here, let me." He took the dollar gently from Castiel, smoothed the creases before putting it back in the machine. They watched as a small bottle of Coke dropped from the rack.

"We're gonna try things your way."

Castiel didn't respond, just stooped over, picked the soda up.

"I talked to some of the doctors. They said that the new tissue was working correctly, that there weren't any huge differences there. I guess I knew that already, but." Castiel still wasn't looking at him, and it was a little frustrating. "They agreed with you, seemed to think it was actually a good idea to go through with it, since the mutation itself seems to be… _harmless._ They seemed a little excited actually. Said they'd never seen anything like it before. Apparently there are some meds that can suppress his body's reaction to it. They're gonna give him some right now." If everything went right, they said, Sam would wake up in a few days perfectly healthy. But when did anything ever go right. Dean was scared shitless.

Castiel nodded slightly, began shuffling away. Dean followed him.

"I didn't mean… You know I didn't mean that. What I said. I know you care about Sam. I was—" _Afraid, _he was going to say, but Castiel cut him off.

"Don't apologize to me, Dean," the former angel said, and Dean could see him playing with the cap of the Coke bottle. "I deserve worse."

No. No, not this again. "Cas, you know that I, I told you that I—"

"It's _fine, _Dean." Castiel spun on his heel, turned to go to Sam's room.

Dean stood there, staring at the door for a minute, before deciding he could manage to wait in the lobby.

oOo

Maybe Crowley' plan wasn't so brilliant after all. The moment he laid eyes on Kevin, lounging on the sofa watching the news, he had to keep himself from gagging.

_Killed his mother, _a nasty voice (or just his own voice, it always sounded nasty) said inside of him. _Ruined his life—no, no, bad time to think human. Get a hold of yourself. Prophet is a Prophet, he should have seen it coming._

Then the Prophet turned to look at him, and that was definitely hatred narrowing his eyes. Hatred of _him? _That couldn't be recognition, could it?

"Crowley," Kevin said, and that confirmed it. Good thing the other demons were ordered off detail, because that would have been a _major _coverblow.

Crowley bared his teeth. "Miss me? Got to say, you've been living in…more pleasant accommodations than I would have expected."

Kevin snorted. "I'm needed. Abaddon was willing to lodge me for a few decades while I finish translating the angel tablet for her, so. I suppose I'll have to alert her you're here so she can eviscerate you or whatever."

He reached for what looked suspiciously like an intercom, so Crowley zipped over, grabbed his wrist to stop him. _Bless_, he hoped Boy Wonder hadn't developed any _other _mysterious powers in the interim, like being able to burn demons in their meatsuits with a venomous look.

"I wouldn't, darling," Crowley said. Then, to diffuse the tension, "I'm here to rescue you."

Kevin looked pointedly at his restrained wrist, quirked an eyebrow. "Against my will?"

oOo

It was surprising to note that, as far as evil totalitarian overlords of Hell went, Abaddon of the First Fallen was quite a gracious ruler.

Case in point: she kept Kevin's icebox _loaded _with alcohol.

"My mooothr… nevr wanted me to get… into…" Kevin waved his hand around unsteadily, indicating the variety of empty bottles they'd littered around the room. Crowley's decreased constitution meant he was pretty smashed, too.

"Ah… 'twas the…" he searched for the word, came up empty "_rodent_ tha' infl'nced thee…"

Kevin flopped to the floor, began laughing uncontrollably. "I wanna leave Hell," he gasped between bouts. "Hateithateithateit." Crowley nodded sagely, eyes blank.

"Lemme take thee out, then," he prompted.

"But you're eeeeviiil~" Kevin sang, and that made Crowley start laughing, too, till they were both shaking, twitching and choking a little bit on the soft fuzzy carpet.

"Wha' abou'… Assbuttmom?" Crowley said, and it was ridiculous how funny that was. He laughed some more.

"Nah," Kevin answered. "She's… all gre'ter good n' shit. Savin' world ri' now."

"_Pfah_."Crowley made it absolutely clear how much he believed _that_.

"Not… ideal. If I… Winchesters," Kevin said lamely, and was rewarded with an inexpertly tossed cell that bounced off of his head. "Mm. Okay. I'll leave. Take me to sm'place comfy."

So Crowley might have missed the first couple of times, but he did eventually manage to land them in an upscale hotel in Los Angeles.

oOo

Castiel didn't actually object when Dean crept in the room, didn't mention Dean's douchery, or, in fact, anything when he drew up the other plastic chair to perch on. So they managed that, a sort of awkward truce of _Lets-pretend-we-don't-have-issues_, each staring rather intently at Sam's sleeping self for a good few hours, silent. Sam would have felt more than a little self-conscious about it all if he was, well, conscious.

When Dean's cell rang, he was so startled he fell out of the chair. "_Kevin,_" he squawked, when he was upright and had managed to flip it open.

"Speaker," Castiel said listlessly.

"_So get this, imma outta Hell now…" _Kevin drawled, between hiccups.

"You're drunk," Dean said, astute. "Wait… _Hell? _What the hell, Kevin?"

"_Yeah, spent a few decades down there, wasn't so bad. Was on tumblr throughout most of it. Site ate up my life."_

"WHY WERE YOU IN HELL, KEVIN?" It wasn't just Dean thinking this was sort of important, right?

"_Uhm, Abaddon wanted me to help her mass produce angel bombs? Yeah, that was it. I feel more sober now. And, uh, it was to stop the angels from summoning som'thin', Lovecraftian… Azathoth? So that they could break open Heaven? It's a bit fuzzy. Think she said everyone would die if I didn't."_

"That's a mild way of putting it," Castiel said, eyes wide. Kevin didn't elaborate, so it fell to him to fill Dean in. "Azathoth is one of the oldest forces… a force of chaos. If the angels—that's what the ones we ran into must be planning—if they're going to use something of that magnitude to break open Heaven…" Castiel shook his head. "You can't control a thing like Azathoth. It'll break open Heaven so that anyone could walk in, but it would also break open Hell… and Purgatory… and the Cage. The dimensions would bleed into one another. Possibly everyone on Earth would die."

_The Cage… he said the Cage_. Dean's mind was running in a continuous loop, so he almost missed what Kevin said next.

"—_ght. But anyway, I stalled on the recipe, gave her useless info 'cause I figured a better plan would be to shut the angels __**in **__Heaven before they became a nuisance to everybody. Then we won't have piles of dead angels and everyone's happy, right? Couldn't call you down there though, sorry."_

"So, we can banish the angels _back _to Heaven?" Dean said distractedly. _The Cage the Cage._ "Are you sure about that?"

"_Pretty sure. So anyway, congrats Kevin, for holding the demons off for upwards twenty years—"_

"What are the trials for the Heavenly Gates?" Castiel interrupted, and Dean's thoughts about the Cage were thrown off for a moment as he thought _Fuck no now Cas wants to kill himself.—_

"_I mean, it looked like pretty much the reverse of the Hell Trials. Y'know, they started with a test of physical strength, then skill, then spiritual purity, right? This one goes in opposite order. I think the first is to walk on water."_

Castiel looked like he was filing this all away for later use, and Dean was right back in Panic Mode, because that was his default setting now, or something. _The Cage the Cage Cas is going to kill himself Cage can't lose Sam fuck what if he doesn't wake up Heaven Trials hell no, no more people dying on me Cage what if Lucifer comes back Cas can't leave not again SamSamSamCasCasSam FUCK—_

"_There was something weird though, with the Trials," _Kevin was saying _"It was—well. It said they could only be completed by a Righteous Man or something, I don't even know what that means—" _

Dean's panicking stopped abruptly. _Oh._

Castiel was looking at him, he knew it, but he wasn't going to look at him. Nope.

"_Dean? Dean? Is this one of those things you said you'd tell me later? Dean?"_

"Thank you, Kevin," Dean said tightly, snapping the cell shut.

"_DE—"_

"You're not—"

He avoided looking at Castiel some more. "Well, looks like if I don't, everyone will die, so."

"Abaddon. She's waging war on them."

And wow, did Castiel sound broken when he said that. Dean remembered, remembered it all, _I killed two angels this week, my brothers, and I did it, all of it for you_, and he really, _really_ didn't want to think about that. "You were gonna jump at the chance just a minute ago."

"That's different. I'm not—you can't—_fuck."_ Dean's pretty sure he's never heard that word leave Castiel's lips before, either. He hears scraping as Castiel stands up from his chair. "I need to leave," he announces. "I need—I hope Sam wakes up soon, Dean, and kicks your ass."

Lots of swearing coming from Castiel, today. _Why don't you? _Dean wants to ask, but he doesn't. He knows the answer.

He still hasn't looked at Castiel when he's slammed the door shut behind him. He wondered what Sam would do to him if he knew.

oOo

"_Fun, isn't it?" Adam enthuses, as Sam holds his head, yelling. "Knew you'd like it. Just think—I have to see this __**all the time**__. Why aren't you damaged, Sam? Did the angel fix that, too?"_

"_How. Did. You. Get. Out."_

"_But, I guess you __**are **__broken," Adam continues. "And you just want me to smash you to bits." He seemed rather cheered by the prospect._

"_Fuck you."_

"_That reminds me—"_

_But Adam didn't get to show Sam what he was reminded of, because Adam was waking up. Sam was jerked back, back into his own dreamspace and it was all familiarity and heads on spikes and infinitely comforting._

oOo

"I think I forgot to tell them about you," Kevin said, blinking blearily at the demon. Come morning, he would probably remember better why he wanted to kill him, but right now his brain was too addled by drugs to figure it out.

"Probably for the best. They want me dead," Crowley replied. Then. "What was this about Heaven Trials, saving the world?"

Oh. _That _was why he hated him. He was an evil, murdering demon, who had cut off his pinky and messed with his brain and tortured him and killed his mother. "_You_ can't do them," Kevin said, hunching over in an Aggressive Manner. "You have to be Righteous, pretty sure."

Crowley didn't sleep or dream, but after Kevin dropped off he thought, he thought about Superman, and saving the world, and how annoyed the Winchesters would be to have their monopoly on the Big Fat Hero business wrested from their grasp.

His smile was slow and vicious and demonic, not at all Righteous, but Crowley felt he could work on that.

oOo

The disappearance of the Prophet triggered an investigation, and while a team attended to finding the culprit and tracking Kevin Tran, Abaddon continued to deal with the more important aspects of running a war campaign.

"So. Our options, now." She looked around at her advisors, and only one didn't shrink at her gaze, spoke up. "The angel bullets in store are of a limited supply. Besides the angel bombs—which we do not have—and the use of some old magic—which we do not have access to—there is only one approach we know, a demon-friendly virus that can kill off every other known creature. Including angels."

Abaddon knew what Mantus was referring to. "Biowarfare?" she clarified. He nodded. "Very well," she said. "Release the Croatoan virus."

oOo

Sam wouldn't be up that night, and Dean could not stand sleeping upright in chairs, so it was with some trepidation that he returned to the motel room, that evening, where Castiel was already shamming sleep. It wasn't strictly necessary for Dean to share Castiel's bed when they were in a two-bed motel room, Dean knew, but Castiel seemed to do better with the nightmares, somehow, when he was closer. Dean's own dreams gentled somewhat because of it, but that wasn't the point.

There was an unnatural tension in the air that night; Dean could feel it clawing away at his chest as he shirked most of his clothing, crept over to where Castiel was resolutely faking snoring. They'd been fighting ever since they got to Oklahoma, first over the case, then over Sam's condition, and now this. If Dean were being honest, they'd been fighting most of the time since Castiel became human. Scratch that. They were _always_ fighting.

And Dean couldn't make him _understand_. That he was doing this for him, too, as well as for Sam. That he was going to save them both from the future he'd glimpsed, the one that loomed closer all the time, haunted him. He was seized, overwhelmed with the urge to tell Castiel all of this, to explain it somehow, but he didn't know how. _Communication, _Sam would tell him. It wasn't one of Dean's strong points.

He slotted himself next to the former angel, draped his arms over Castiel's in their customary position, while trying to remain mindful of the injured arm. For some reason or other, Castiel's thrashing always worsened just after a case, and Dean honestly wasn't sure what to expect, after today.

He was still filled with that strange feeling, bursting with the desire to tell Castiel everything, show him, somehow, what he meant by all this. Perhaps this was what made him lean forward, pressing a feather light kiss to the back of Castiel's neck.

Castiel turned in his arms, eyes probably just as wide as Dean's own. _I don't know, don't look at me like that,_ Dean thought. "Please," he said. He didn't know what he was asking for. "Let me—I need to—"

Castiel stared, nodded at him mutely, and that was more than enough reason to abandon conversation. They surged together, wind and wave, and for a while, Dean let himself be swept away by it.

oOo

"I need you to promise me something, Cas." They were both naked and breathing heavily, and Dean felt the heat thrumming under his skin like it was a living thing, eating him alive. It was confusing, and alien, but Dean couldn't think about that right then. Maybe he could have a crisis later. Because he had to say this, this one thing.

"What."

Dean propped his head on his elbow, taking in all of Castiel that he could in the dim light, the rush of feeling when he did so almost bowling him over completely.

"You know… what I'm planning to do. I need you to promise me that you won't leave. That you'll just…listen to me, do what I ask." He sighed. "I'm not gonna be able to do this alone, Cas. I'm gonna need… I need your help."

Castiel's eyes fluttered shut, a pained expression crossing his face. "Dean. You can't ask me to…"

"I am, though, Cas. Please." He took one hand to grip Castiel's shoulder, to try and anchor him. "I need you to stand by me on this. You're the only one I can ask."

Castiel's eyes screwed up tighter. He wanted to lash out, at the injustice of it all. How dare he be made to make this decision. To have to choose between the world that he had, in fact, sworn to protect, between the lives of his sisters and brothers and countless innocents, and the life of the one man his world had somehow come to revolve around.

How could he aid in the destruction of this man? It went against everything that he was, every molecule of his being. Castiel knew for certain that what they did to save Sam, _if it saved Sam,_ they wouldn't be able to repeat, not if Dean completed the Trials like he intended. It was impossibly cruel, to ask this of him.

But Castiel knew which choice was the right one, so he gripped Dean's shoulder back, prepared to tear himself in two.

"I will follow you, Dean Winchester," he promised, "Wherever you decide to go."

His tears were silent as Dean wrapped himself around him, rocking them back and forth. _Thank you…_


	9. Gabriel's Return

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—which made Father Gregory Talley just that much more grateful to be in the warm coziness of the confessional. The church seemed so much more like a shelter during weather like this, the penetrating stillness and coolness it held throughout much of the week, exchanged for quiet comfort. It was times like this, when despite being the "novice" priest and new to the area, Father Talley felt at home.

"It's been." The man on the other side of the grille hesitated. "Three months since my last confession."

There was another pause, so long that Father Talley half-wondered if the man had left. He was on the kneeler, so he couldn't see the outline of his face. "I'm here to listen," he said encouragingly.

"I never finished my last confession."

Pause.

"And why is that?"

"I killed the priest."

Father Talley's breath caught, and he shivered in spite of the warmth. He didn't know which was more terrifying, the statement itself or that there was only the slightest note of regret in the man's voice. He wondered if the man was a serial killer, and offered up a quiet prayer for protection if he was. He stayed silent, but the man needed no further prompting to continue.

And boy, did he continue. The things he said had Father Talley quaking in his seat, fist in his mouth to keep himself from calling out. He needed to be strong. He needed to—and then something the man said made him speak, despite himself.

"You're a _demon!_" His own voice made him cringe. If he was Father Yates— the Methuselah of Our Lady of Sorrows—he would have spoken some kind of exorcism immediately, but Father Talley felt he had a right to be surprised. He'd never heard of a demon going to confessional before. He began fumbling around for a crucifix, mourned the fact that the holy water was so far away.

"Yes, I'm a demon," the man sighed, longsuffering. "I applaud your mental acuity. That's not the _point. _I need absolution."

Father Talley stilled, blinked in bemusement. This was unprecedented. He hadn't ever heard of a demon trying to repent, either.

"…I don't think a few Hail Mary's are going to cover it for you," he said shakily. The man puffed out a breath.

"Well, that brings us to Plan B."

oOo

Sam woke up to holy water being poured on his face.

"What the he—"

Then cleaning fluid.

"Have to run the tests, sorry, Sam. We don't know exactly what ended up happening to you, so. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess. Good. What do you mea—"

He flinched a little as a thin cut was made along his arm. How he and Dean didn't end up scarring like wrist shredders for this, he didn't know.

"Huh."

"What is it?" He sat up, to find Dean staring at his arm like it had grown eyes and started winking suggestively at him.

"Dude. You just went Claire Bennet on me."

"What?"

Dean dropped his arm. "The cut healed."

And it had. No more potential arm-scarring for Sam Winchester, then. His eyes widened.

"Dean, what happe—"

"Let me try something." Castiel had stood up from a chair by the hospital bed, was reaching for Sam's arm with one hand and that was _definitely _an angel's blade he was holding—

"You don't think?" This from Dean.

"I'm not sure, but—"

"_**Will somebody explain to me what's going on?**_"

An awkward silence descended over the room. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, sent a glare in Castiel's direction. "Well, it wasn't really my idea, but…"

Castiel was beaming. "We're very glad that you're feeling well, Sam. I was worried that you wouldn't wake up after we suppressed your immune system for as long as we had."

Well, okay. That was just.

"What he's _saying_," Dean cut in, "Is that you were in a bad way, Sam. Your, your DNA was changing 'cause of the Trials, and your body was fighting it off. So we, um. Let it happen. But—uh, we don't know exactly what happened 'cause of that."

Sam's mouth fell open. "So what you're saying is, I could have just turned into a monster, and you _let it happen?_"

"Yes," Castiel said calmly, reaching again for his arm. "You should be grateful to your brother," he admonished quietly, lowering his blade "You'd likely be dead by now if he hadn't decided to do this."

That was Dean, all right. He'd take a soulless Sam over a dead Sam, a crazy Sam over a dead Sam, a sick Sam and a world full of demons over a dead Sam. He really shouldn't be surprised that Dean was okay with monster Sam, too. Maybe they should talk about this. They should definitely talk about this.

"Ah!"

Castiel's blade _hurt,_ in a way unfamiliar to him. He felt a sort of tugging burn travel up his arm, watched as what could only be described as golden goo seeped from the wound.

Dean leaned in closer, glancing at Castiel. "What does this mean, then?"

"I… don't know."

oOo

Crowley had arranged to meet up with Kevin again at Cognoscenti Coffee, partly because it was close to the hotel, but mostly because he hoped a gourmet pourover and a pastry might lessen the Prophet's inclination to kill him. The plan seemed to be working, too, because when Crowley breezed through the entrance he was rather astonished to find the Prophet _not _glaring at him in that pissed-off honey badger way he had. He still looked angry, but there was an edge of curiosity to it that had Crowley swaggering to the table with a touch more hesitance than before.

"So. You're human now," Kevin said as Crowley slid into the seat across from him. Coupled with his expression, Crowley translated:_ So. If I stab you in the neck with this dessert fork, you'll definitely die_.

"Yes," Crowley smiled, because he was a Salesman once and he knew a smile was usually a good method of waylaying danger. "One hundred percent, bona-fide human."

Kevin nodded, spun his dessert fork around his fingers in a way that was really not menacing at all. "How are you feeling?" Less…?"

"Suzanne Vale?" Crowley shrugged. "Sure, after half an hour or so of crying on a church pew, I was back to my old self."

He watched Kevin's fingers halt, tighten around the dessert fork. He didn't know what the badger expected, though. It wasn't like he was the pinnacle of humanity back before he was a demon. In fact, becoming a demon was the height of his aspirations then, if he remembered correctly. There really wasn't any other reason to sell his soul for a pittance he could have easily taken care of with a spell.

"And you still want to do this. The Trials."

Crowley's smile grew wider. "No, I want to sulk in a monastery. I want to become a Buddhist. I want to help build orphanages in Haiti."

Kevin's nose wrinkled at the sarcasm. "I'm just saying. I've heard that, well, you'll die if you do them."

Crowley figured he should stop eyeing the dessert fork. The badger couldn't be planning to murder him if he was killing himself well enough on his own. "If you think you can depend on the Winchesters to complete the job, you're a better brand of stupid than they are. Remember what happened with the moo—Sam? Nah, I'd say it's safest not to put all your eggs in one basket."

Kevin's lips pursed, and Crowley knew he'd sold him on the idea. "But you aren't worried about dying," the Prophet pressed.

What was he waiting for? Crowley to say he was going on a suicide mission, because he was oh so sorry, and wanted to redeem himself to him? That wasn't true, but Crowley didn't feel like jeopardizing his position by saying so.

"Nah," he said, all bravado. "I hear the Man Upstairs has a thing for bringing back people who have died for The Cause."

oOo

Chuck Shirley, known to the wider world as Carver Edlund, and to more by a different, somewhat shorter name, now bore the alias Eric Snyder. The man nursing a beer next to him on the patio also knew something about false identities.

"Got to say, I'm surprised you brought me back," the man said, squinting ahead at the sunrise on his garish psychedelic-patterned lawn chair, swishing the beer bottle once, twice before bringing it to rest at his side. Beer wasn't really his thing. "Thought Cassie was your favorite."

"Oh, he is," Chuck-Carver-Eric said, because he was honest about these things. "But you're important, too. And I need someone to handle Heaven right now—it's a bit of a mess."

The man snorted. "It's _always _been a mess up there, ever since—I left for a reason. Don't see why you'd start caring now, anyway."

"Watch your tone," Chuck said mildly, and the man's face soured. "_You_ care—that's why you died, and that's why you're the man for the job. Don't bullshit me about why you left. You grew a pair, now you have to live with the consequences."

The man's eyes narrowed. "You'd think I'd have gotten a reward for that or something. Not get dragged back into—" he gestured his hand at the skies, his point self-evident.

"Once in, you're never out," Chuck said placidly. "Most _would _consider what I'm giving you a reward. Think of it as a stewardship, if you must—holding down the fort until the heir can take over."

"You mean Cassie."

"Of course."

There was anger glittering behind Gabriel's eyes, but he nodded once, curtly, and disappeared. Chuck settled himself more comfortably in his own lawn chair, took a long pull at his beer, and sighed.

"I've done way too much interfering, lately. Any more and I'll be jumping the shark."

oOo

Ash said it went down like the French Revolution. He seemed to find it all very funny, had even taken to calling everyone 'citizen.' Though it drove Bobby crazy, even he had to admit he sort of had a point.

There was bedlam when the angels disappeared. Not that the constant civil war going on beforehand was necessarily ideal, but with no one monitoring, the souls went nuts. Worse, though, was that with no Joshua pruning the Garden, it grew, overgrown with weeds, uncontrolled into everyone's backyards, morphed into a sort of sadistic Labyrinth. Like the one in the Death Gate Cycle, not that Bobby would ever admit to having read that; it would ruin his reputation. The whole situation reminded Bobby rather unpleasantly of Hell, and he was more than grateful when an army of souls—himself included—stormed the walls of Metatron's little fortress and killed him. It felt like a relief, somehow.

Not that it solved anything.

The Labyrinth continued to grow, twisted more of the souls in Heaven each passing moment. The worst part was that there was no escaping from it. Bobby couldn't find the hole back to Purgatory he'd come through. He'd found Ellen, Jo, Ash and Pamela, but he'd never been able to find Karen. He might not be so afraid of that either, except that souls had begun already to turn on each other, tearing each other apart the same way they'd learned to tear apart Metatron's Grace. It was sickening.

So like with the French Revolution, it ended with royalty returning. The souls who hadn't gone postal were welcoming when Gabriel passed through the not-so-Pearly-anymore Gates, and to give the angel credit, he'd restored order fairly quickly. Meaning, he torched the Labyrinth after an evacuation order, along with most, if not all of the souls that had been twisted irreparably by it.

Perhaps a little over half of Heaven was charred rubble afterwards, but Bobby wasn't concerned with that right then. Their new Steward—or whatever the hell he was calling himself—had made it clear in no uncertain terms that what he desired above all else was to be left alone, and most of the souls had learned to steer clear of him. Not Bobby.

"Bring me back," he told the archangel, because Bobby Singer didn't do _please._

Gabriel hardly looked up from the paperwork he was filling out. Apparently running Heaven involved a lot of paperwork; he had a whole team of souls working on it in the floor below. "No."

"What do you mean, _no_?" Bobby said, incredulous. "I need to be down there, and you—"

"I have never owed you anything, Bobby Singer," Gabriel said, a dark note creeping into his voice. Lately he'd been channeling Wrathful Soldier of God far more than the Trickster Bobby had heard of. It served as a forceful reminder of just how old Gabriel _was_. "Even if I did, I have paid my dues. Leave."

But Wrathful Soldiers of God never did faze Bobby much. "Listen to me," he said. "They _need _me down there, they're having to deal with the angels right now and I can help—"

"_Your time is finished, Singer,_" Gabriel said, and his voice shook the walls. He took a deep breath in, looked as if he was trying to control his temper. "Look, I know you're dying to join up with the boys again, but what's going on right now is multidimensional chess—a war on all sides of Heaven, Earth, and Hell—Purgatory will add its two cents before long too, I'm sure. I'm up to my eyes in shit just trying to handle the _domestic_ side of things, here. This should, and w_ill _be taken care of first. I will need you, and I will let you know when—and if—it will be advantageous to send you to Earth. You are under _my _orders. Understand?"

They looked at each other, one weary warrior to another, and Bobby mused on how Dean oversimplified things, making the being before him into just a Trickster, a son sick of his family fighting. Gabriel might be those things, but at that moment what Bobby saw was a general, a creature so old and worn down by history Bobby could scarcely fathom it. "Yes," he said resentfully. He recognized who was the more powerful one here, and he was damned if he didn't know his place when it counted.

"Good," Gabriel said. "I expect you to continue organizing the souls."

Bobby had already been doing that, but it felt wrong somehow, doing it now that he was under orders. Bobby was a leader, the others followed him instinctively, and it scared him a little to know that Gabriel recognized that, was intending to use it for his own purposes. _I am my own man, _Bobby repeated to himself, as he stormed out of Gabriel's fortress. _I'm only collaborating with him. The second something doesn't sit right with me…_

_Yeah, right, you idjit, _he scolded himself. _You're taking it up the ass, again. _

oOo

"Hold on," Buer said. As the leader of fifty legions of demons, he felt he had the right to make his opinion heard. "We can't just _release _the Croatoan virus." He looked around, and was relieved to find some of the other demons nodding, including Mantus. Abaddon, however, didn't look too happy with him, and her voice came out like a whiplash.

"Why not?"

"Well," It was difficult to look at her. The ends of her hair were on fire from rage. "It would be too unfocused. We don't know exactly where the angels are at anymore, they're going further underground, so if we spread the Croatoan virus anywhere we feel like willy-nilly, it'll just give them time to quarantine and defend themselves from the virus. There'd be too much warning, the whole attack would fail."

"Then what would _you _suggest doing, Buer," she said, and he knew he was being put on the spot, but he was equal to the task. He didn't want her to set _him _on fire, too.

"I think we need to draw them out and then try a more focused attack. The best way we could do that, is to attack something they can't afford to lose, and assuming they're still recruiting, the best way to do that is find some Fallen not already in their army, and attack _them, _thereby forcing the army into a position where they'd have to defend them."

"I see," Abaddon said. She made an effort to tone down her angry reaction; she felt humiliated, but she couldn't afford to look weak or incompetent in front of her underlings. Even if she was older and more powerful, half were likely already plotting her overthrow. She couldn't drive divides any deeper by reacting unfavorably to a demon with a better plan.

"What—ah, I didn't realize you were so well-schooled in strategy," she said carefully.

"I'm not, really," Buer said, visibly surprised. "It's just, um, I read The Art of War. Um, Crowley, uh, made it required reading. For everyone."

Abaddon's face went completely blank.

"He um, always said that, _there's always something to learn from the humans_." A good portion of the other demons chorused it with him, and immediately looked embarrassed by it.

Abaddon nodded, gave a few more orders before dismissing everyone. When she was sure she was quite alone, she kicked the conference table, smashing it into splinters.

"_Damn _you, Crowley," she seethed.

oOo

"So, angel blade, demon blade, but you don't have a problem with Devil's Traps, should we be trying holy fire now, or—?"

"No!" Sam said, maybe a tad too eagerly. Dean gave him a suspicious squint. "Look, Dean, I'm just, I'm _tired. _We can run more tests tomorrow if you want, I don't care, but can we hold up on it for today? I'm exhausted."

"Sure," Dean shrugged, rolled his shoulders back. "I'm tired too. That drive earlier was friggin' _long. _Wonder if Cas—"

He looked back, but Castiel had fallen asleep on the armchair, no doubt while Dean was still doing the salt-tests.

"Are you going to...?"

"Nah," Dean said. "I don't want to wake him. Maybe later. If—" He let the sentence hang.

"I'll stay with him."

Dean's eyes flashed back to his. "That's another thing. If it turns out that you can't sleep… now, I'm not saying I think you lost your soul, but that's usually an indicator for _something_."

"I'll sleep, Dean." He yawned for effect. "Don't go setting up any baby monitors. Relax."

"I can't, Sam. I hope you know I trust you, that I'm not doing any of this because I think— but I don't like not knowing what's going on. It freaks me the hell out."

"I'm still me."

Dean smiled. "I know that. 'Sides, I've gotten used to you having super-powers. All you're missing," his smile grew wicked. "Is the spandex."

Dean's laugh disappeared around the corner, and as it faded, so did Sam's own grin. He waited for a minute before unfolding himself from the sofa, reaching out to shake Castiel's shoulder.

"Cas. Cas, wake up."

Castiel grumbled and squirmed, rubbing his eyes as he attempted to situate himself. Not really the Hunter Wake Up, but he'd get there, someday. "…Sam?"

"Sorry I woke you. I just… I need to ask you something."

Castiel's frown deepened by a fraction, and he struggled to sit up. "What is it?" he grunted, managing to get himself in an upright position. His eyebrows were already knit together, his eyes blinking rapidly as they tried to focus on Sam.

"In the Cage…"

Castiel stiffened.

"When you tried to get me out, I, did I—fight you? What happened down there?"

"Sam, how much do you still remember? Is anything being stirred up by—"

"Just answer me, Cas. I need to know."

It was difficult to read Castiel at the best of times, Sam thought, and tonight was no exception. He seemed to draw in on himself, looking smaller than usual in a room designed to be comfortable and close. Like a fish out of water. He cleared his throat.

"Both you and Dean fought against rescue, yes," he said slowly. "But you must understand… I was stronger than you both. I could have overpowered you easily. I was… There was no reason why I shouldn't have been able to bring out your soul. Michael and Lucifer… I was stronger than them, too. Or I thought I was. I should have been more careful. I'm—" _Sorry_.

Sam let it hang, relieved to find that for once, he didn't feel anger roiling around his belly, the anger he'd usually rationalize away because he _shouldn't _feel that way. For once, it was just…absent. And that was good. Even if the other things he was feeling—fear and despair, because just _how _right was Adam, anyway—weren't so pleasant.

"I know," he said quietly. "And thank you. For trying."

He laid his head back then, and went searching for dreams.

oOo

_"…Amelia?"_

_ Amelia jerked, spun on her heel in the middle of the hallway. "I don't have time to talk, Sam. I need to get into surgery __**now**__."_

_ "No, you don't. You're dreaming."_

_ She paused. Pinched herself, and shrugged. "I thought when you find out you're dreaming, you're supposed to wake up."_

_ "That happens sometimes, too."_

_ She frowned, settled a hand on her hip, a careless gesture. "So anyway, Dream-Sam, what are you doing here? I made my peace with what happened a long time ago, so as far as introspection goes, you showing up in my dreams now is pretty lame."_

_ Sam started. "You did?"_

_ She rolled her eyes, but smiled as she did so. "Or maybe I just really want to dream about sex," she laughed. "But, yeah. It took a while, but I figured out what was wrong with our relationship. I guess it was actually a good thing you didn't follow through with meeting me, because it wouldn't have worked out."_

_ "Oh."_

_ "I'm sorry, Sam." She took a step closer, put her hand on his arm. "But it would have been unfair of me to stay, because this," she waved at the air between them. "Was never really about you. I guess—I guess I wanted to love you because my husband left me for the army, and you seemed like a deserter. I wanted Don though, not you. It was wrong of me. I don't think I could apologize enough."_

_ Sam pulled his arm away. "I knew you loved Don," he said. "I thought that was something we both understood, losing someone—"_

_ "I didn't lose Don though, not permanently," she said. "And anyway, wasn't that the whole reason you loved me? Without having that loss in common, what did we have? I couldn't help but think, when you lost your brother, you were so aggressive with me, trying to talk about my feelings about Don—I felt like you were just projecting your own onto me. So wasn't our relationship on your end about someone else, too?"_

_ Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the alarms went off and he felt Amelia waking up._

He woke up breathing hard on the sofa. "Am I on a _Vision Quest_?" he said, incredulous.

oOo

"You haven't told your brother." It was an observation that read like an accusation, and made Dean sit up, so he could see Castiel more clearly.

"Problem?" It came out more confrontational than he intended.

"Yes," Castiel huffed. "You put a high premium on honesty, as I remember."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Cas. It's not like I'm not going to tell him. It's just—we have other things to worry about right now, too. What's going on with him, for starters."

"I don't think you will."

"What?"

Suddenly Castiel was _very _close, his voice a low growl. "I don't think you'll tell Sam what you're doing. Because then you'd have to explain to him how it is you prevented him from completing the Hell Trials, to do this. I think you'll hide it from him, as he tried to hide it from you."

"This is different," Dean said weakly.

Castiel turned away. "How different is it?"

oOo

"I'm going to send you off," Gabriel said, giving Bobby a hard stare. "But not to Earth."

"Where to, then, princess?" Gabriel's eyes narrowed, and Bobby celebrated that, that small victory. He liked being an ornery bastard; it was the foundation of his sense of self-identity.

"You'll be going on a diplomatic mission. If we're going to enter the fray, we're going to need allies—so you'll be touring around, asking those pagan gods still alive if they'll be interested in an alliance."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "And you're asking _me _to do this? From what I've heard, you're the Poster Boy of paganism—"

"It was Loki the gods accepted, not me." Gabriel grimaced. "_Gabriel _is not someone they particularly like. Ever since Muhammad and the incident at the Kaaba…" He shuddered. "I'd probably be murdered before ever getting to say my piece. Besides, they _like _humans. Mostly. Sort of. At any rate, I have complete confidence in you."

Bobby scowled. "And this is better than finding a way to reverse Metatron's spell because…?"

"Because bringing back my siblings in their current state is the equivalent of killing every soul here." He sighed. "The fighting has got to stop, and affairs are too fragile up here to be able to handle it. Whatever's going on on Earth—I've been spoken to of their organization—it's a good thing. If the civil war and power struggles can reach a conclusion on Earth, then we can open the doors and let them in without any danger."

"But if they grow too organized, they'll kick down the door and wreck everything anyway," Bobby pointed out, and Gabriel glared.

"That's why we need these alliances. Hop to, soldier."

oOo

"Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"

Opna looked at the greasy man with sorrowful eyes, and nodded. She rubbed unconsciously at her bow—now a tattoo on her wrist, in a moment a gleaming thing drawn out of the ether, imperceptible to human eyes.

She took aim—her target, three tables over and to the right. The greasy man was still talking—no, shouting something—but nothing could disturb her focus. She pulled the string back, worried her lower lip between her teeth as she contemplated the perfect time to strike.

Then she was bowled over, felt a jagged cut being made along her arm. Before it could close up, another wet wound was pressed to it.

Her scream went on and on.

_A/N: Sorry this update took so long! Please believe me when I say I've been very busy. I also feel sort of bad—this chapter is long, but mostly setting up for later storylines._

_I am going to need a vote for the next chapter—cupids are going to be making appearance, and I need to decide what a cupid's arrow will make Sam fall in love with! Here are the choices:_

_His own gorgeous self! There will be much gratuitous hair-stroking, staring at his own reflection, and admiring his own musculature._

_The Impala! Because I, for one, would like to see what happens when Dean's beloved car is wrested from him by his own brother._

_The cupid who shot him! I imagine that would be an awkward situation for a cupid, might make one of them realize that the unbridled affection they inflict upon others is possibly not the best way to go about making matches._


	10. Cupids, Cures, and Croatoan

_**A/N: I received a few great suggestions for Sam's one-chapter love interest, and also a popular second choice! Thank you to mscottsayshi, DaniBD, and NarutoRox, for voting, and also ChickieG and niccc for reviewing! : )**_

_**To make up for this chapter being very late, it is also VERY long. I felt it would be unfair to cut it down (although I did, in fact, end up cutting it down), so. Dr. Lee is from 2.09, Croatoan. I like seeing old friends show up again. : )**_

_The blade drives downward, Dean screams._

_"I won't hurt Dean."_

_"Yes. You will. You __**are**__."_

_Blood from the last Dean stains his fingertips. He wills it away._

_"I need you to stand by me on this. You're the only one I can ask."_

_A crack, a whimper, a thump._

_"Come on, you coward. Do it. Do it!"_

_Piles of him, all dead. He half expects to see the outlines of wings, the scene is so similar to..._

_"This is different."_

_"How different is it?"_

"Cas! Wake up!"

Castiel opened his eyes, felt Dean's fingers rubbing circles into his skin._ No, please don't touch me, nonono._ He shivered a little, and Dean stopped.

"Was it bad?" That's the extent of their dialogue on dreams now, if they were bad or not. They were always bad. For both of them.

"I don't think I enjoy sleeping," he admitted.

"Okay. Okay. Let's not sleep then."

Dean pressed closer, but Castiel swung out of the bed, felt the cool shock of wood beneath his feet. Everything is_ feeling _now. He curled his toes, into the grainy texture of it.

"I'm going to make some coffee."

"...Okay."

Castiel nodded to himself, and stumbled out of the room. Away from Dean. He needed to be far, far away.

_Why can't I leave?_

oOo

Dean didn't find him again until much later. It had rained earlier in the day, and he found Castiel outside, barefoot in the wet grass. They'd found a rose bush growing by the side of the bunker about a week ago, and Castiel was crouched by it, running his fingers over the velvety petals. He loved the thing, was all _appreciative of the beauty of the flora and fauna_ or whatever. _He'll be asking for a flower garden next, _Dean thought. And they'd end up with one, too. They'd grow herbs for spells, so they'd be fresh when they needed them for use, and—

_It's really good to have a home._

"So Sam found us a case," he said, stopping when he was standing beside Castiel. "Up in Nowheresville, Ohio. A classic sleepy town that's recently seen a slew of violent murders. Sam thinks it might be worth checking out."

"Yes, that's probably true." Castiel stood up, brushed off his jeans and made to walk inside.

"Cas, wait." He watched Castiel halt, mid-step, back still turned. "Is… is everything alright?" _With us._ Dean didn't know what was going on, couldn't figure it out. A few nights ago he and Castiel had done some research on walking on water—Peter, Sariputta, et cetera, et cetera—and ever since, it felt like Castiel was pulling away. He'd hardly look Dean in the eyes for more than half a second before they'd skitter away, to his hands or the floor or whatever interesting object was located just over Dean's ear. And that was when he wasn't actively avoiding him, making hasty excuses and leaving rooms quickly whenever Dean would enter.

Sure enough, Castiel's eyes did the same stop-drop-and-roll now, and frankly, Dean found it creepier than the stare. It was suspicious behavior, to say the least—almost like he was hiding something. "No," Castiel said, and Dean's breath caught. "I lost my phone. I suppose I'll have to ask Sam for the spare." The former angel was fishing around in his pockets, now.

"You're godawful at deflecting, Cas. That wasn't convincing at all."

Castiel jerked one of his pockets out with force, apparently to demonstrate that there really was no phone inside. "I believe that deflecting is a football term. I have never played football before." He glared, again at the spot over Dean's ear. "I will be inside."

He turned away again, started walking, but it was easy, too easy for Dean to catch up. He grabbed his arm, making him perform a sort of pirouette to face him.

"You little shit. What's the problem? Because if you're going to be keeping up with this passive-aggressive shit, I think it's best you sit out on this case. You can't just flutter off this time, either, so how about telling me, _what's your issue_?"

"Don't _touch _me." Castiel peeled Dean's hand off his arm, flung it away. Dean's nostrils flared.

"Is _that _the problem? Fine. I won't touch you." He took a step back. "I won't get in your goddamn _personal space. _You good now? You happy?"

Castiel's fists clenched. "Stop trying to provoke me."

"Or you'll what? Smite me where I stand? Throw me back into Hell?" He was out of line. He was so out of line, but he was angry, and confused, and it hurt like hell that Castiel was acting like this _now_ when they'd only just started… whatever it was they were doing. Didn't he trust him? Couldn't he tell him, if something was wrong or if the nightmares were getting too bad or if he could use any help? Hadn't Dean earned that, at _least_?

_I won't murder you, Dean. I can't. _Castiel's features smoothed over in an instant. "Do not mock me, Dean," he said quietly. Dangerously. Alarm bells started going off in Dean's head, but he was unable, unwilling to move. "I am not incapable of becoming a threat. I understand you are upset, and will discontinue my… 'passive-aggressive' behavior immediately. Please excuse me to collect my things."

And there wasn't really anything Dean could do, so he let him. As the man rounded the corner though, he couldn't resist; he aimed a violent kick at the rosebush.

"_Asshole,_" he sputtered.

He had to spend the next several minutes untangling his leg from the thorns.

oOo

"There are cupids in Ohio," Marut announced. Harut groaned.

"_Cupids? _Cupids are, they're useless!"

"We need everyone, you said so yourself many times.We hear they've been on an uncontrolled matchmaking spree since the Fall—the lack of orders did nothing to curb their… enthusiasm."

Because she obviously hadn't groaned enough, Harut groaned some more. "I bet the orders were the only things _curbing_ their enthusiasm. _Father_, I've avoided cupids for centuries. Not to say we don't need devoted soldiers, but _that _devoted—"

"There was a time when the Cherubim were the second highest order of angel," Marut rebuked. "I do not believe their power has waned with their standing."

"They're emotionally fragile!" Harut insisted. "They can't take criticism without breaking down crying…"

"They are both reliable and hardworking," Marut said. "And also, at this moment, too visible. If we do not intervene," he smiled. "Take them under our wing, they'll attract attention from less well-intentioned forces."

"We'll send a platoon," Harut said, defeated. Her sheikh, she could never afford to ignore his advice for long.

oOo

"So you're mad about something," Sam said offhandedly, when they'd run their third consecutive red light, almost killed their fifth pedestrian, and honked enough times to set a world record. "And it isn't me."

It wasn't that Sam was worried about their safety; Dean was too competent of a driver for that, road rage or no. He was more worried about the person Dean was angry with, which, statistically, would have to be Castiel.

"Don't push your luck," Dean said, swerving around a corner.

"Well, we're making good time, at least," Sam noted, seeing that the speedometer was a good fifteen miles above the speed limit, rapidly escalating into twenty. "We'll arrive a good five hours earlier than anticipated."

"Awesome."

Sam was getting progressively more irked. He really shouldn't have to walk on eggshells like this. _I get that you guys have issues, okay, but can you just make up a little faster so I don't have to deal with this all the time? I have to live with you two._ "Um, so what is it this time? I have problems keeping up with…" Dean was ignoring him, so he shut up.

He did manage a lot of pointed glares though, before they pulled up at Sleazy Motel No. one billion and two. Miraculously, Castiel's bike was already there, which meant that either a) He'd learned to teleport again, or b) He was even more pissed and road rage-y than Dean. Sam did the math, and the results weren't pretty.

He turned his eyes to the heavens. "Can you give me a break? For, maybe, once?"

oOo

Crowley really wouldn't have minded taking the car Kevin gave to him, if Kevin himself wasn't included in the package.

"So, you want to throw in your lot with _me_ now? What happened to being an objective third party?"

Kevin looped his arm through the other strap of his backpack. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Try daycare. Or, I'm sure Ren and Stimpy would welcome you back with open arms."

"I'm not going to college," Kevin said evenly. "This isn't going to stop—my life's set, I'm a Prophet, no point in fighting it, and I guess it beats being President, in a couple of ways. I just thought if I made it to college, I could get away from the pressure, you know? There's—so much pressure. World ending and it all depends on you, you know."

Crowley's raised eyebrows indicated supreme disinterest, but Kevin was okay with that. It was nice to talk to someone who didn't give a shit, who had no real expectations for him. Even if that someone also murdered his girlfriend in front of him—no. "As for Sam and Dean—" He shook his head. "They care more about each other than anything else. I really think they'd let the world burn before giving up on each other. I'm not even sure I trust them to complete these Trials…they didn't manage it before."

"What, and you trust _me?_"

"Not really," Kevin said, unlocking the unassuming 1990 Toyota Camry he'd stolen. "But I don't have anything to lose, and neither do you." He tossed his bag in the backseat and settled behind the wheel.

Crowley shrugged. "Fair enough."

"Besides, I want to be here to shoot you when you back out."

oOo

Dean could feel it, once they started the case. _Distance. _Castiel went from inexplicably seething to cold and professional in two seconds flat, and while Dean supposed that was a good thing if they were going to be working together, it still left an achy feeling in his core.

The coroner was willing enough to let agents "Jonathan Smith" and "Mark Gordon" look at the bodies. Dean was slightly disappointed he was the only one who found the aliases funny— Castiel didn't understand the joke, and Sam had just given him a dirty look before going off to question to vics' families. Whatever. It wasn't Dean's fault he was the only one with a sense of humor.

"Wait… _Dean_?"

The coroner was still standing in the doorway; Dean did a double take. Thin blond hair, freckles. There was recognition there, but it took him a long moment to place her.

_Holy shit._

"Dr. Lee!" he said, surprised. He could feel Castiel's confusion radiating towards him. He waved him off, towards the bodies. "It's been, what? Seven years? Last time I saw you… you've had a career change."

"And you were a US Marshal last time I saw you," she replied. "Small world. Wish I could say I'm glad to see you, but I'm really… not. These bodies— I was thinking serial killer, but with you here… I already checked the blood work, but the signs disappear after only a few hours… and shit, the phone lines have been down…"

Dean opened his mouth, to say something about not _knowing_ whether it was Croatoan, not yet, but Castiel was trying to catch his attention.

"Dean. Look."

Ignoring the borderline-hyperventilating coroner for the moment, Dean walked over. "What is it?"

"This body here… This is an angel." He held up the wrist of the dead woman, and pointed to the tattoo on it.

"Cupid."

"Correct." His face was inscrutable; Dean couldn't tell what was causing his lips to thin, a hard line of—what? Concentration? Anger?

"Okay, so what killed it?"

"Other angels." Castiel indicated the stab wound in the woman's chest. "This is a situation."

"Ah… that's a weird one, but not what I want you to look at," Lee said, not even bothering trying to follow the conversation. She was probably best off not knowing. She pulled out four other bodies. "I've got more, older ones. All recent couples, and… I can't say there's any system to it, but they all died violently…"

Dean whistled. "_Violently. _Understatement of the year."

One of the corpses had its intestines drawn out, with the ends of them shoved in the victim's mouth. They had been manually forced to chew on it. Castiel began to circle another body, one where the limbs were all pointing in the wrong directions. A blow to the head was the apparent cause of death—part of the skull was smashed in.

"The angels we've met haven't been killing their own," Dean said, trying to pull Castiel out of whatever funk he was in now. "Do you think they're behind these as well?"

"No, angels were not responsible for these deaths," Castiel murmured.

"I don't have the equipment to run DNA samples here," the coroner admitted. "I was going to send these to the city, but since the thunderstorm last night it's been impossible to contact anyone. To be honest, I've just been holed up here for the past couple of days, for the generator."

They heard a rattling at the door, and Dr. Lee jumped a few inches before moving to let Sam inside.

"You better be _damn _grateful it was me that went out there," Sam said. "We're dealing with Croatoan."

Dr. Lee gasped and sent some samples clattering to the floor. "Is it—the virus? From before?" she whispered, but she was ignored.

"How do you know?"

"First clue was when a vic's family pinned me down and tried to bleed on me," Sam snapped. "Not that it would have mattered, but my wound closed up before they could do anything, and I managed to get away. The police department's overrun, too. I'm thinking we should bolt. There's no telling how far the virus has spread already."

"We can't do that. It'll spread beyond here. It'll get bigger."

"We have reason to believe there are angels in the area," Castiel said. "Perhaps we can enlist their help; contain the threat."

"Okay, but _how?_"

oOo

Pado was firing arrows faster than he ever had in his existence, backed up against a wall, his fingers flying every time he so much as caught a glimpse of a human. It wasn't exactly how he'd been trained to go about things—in fact, it was explicitly forbidden.

"I can't help but feel this is unethical!" he called out, as said human ran, arms extended, to the nearest tree. He'd just created a case of dendrophilia, evidently. It sickened him—this was not something he was meant to do, not something he would have ever _considered _doing. "There are limits to how we should mess with a human's emotions!"

"Would you rather they became part of the Infected? I'd sooner not have to smite the entire town!" Diari shouted back. Her own bow was stowed; she held an angel's blade loosely at her side as she scanned the area for Infected. Pado wondered if it was all bluster, her talk of smiting. It wasn't like either of them had the power sufficient to do it—they were too low-ranked. Without their wings, they had to make do with trying to keep the humans from tearing each other and them to pieces. "Every one of their lives has value; we must ensure the survival of as many as possible! We have been taught that, Opna died believing that!"

"Opna died trying to kill you!" Pado pointed out, but he knew it would do no good. Diari spoke in terms of heroics and legendary battles—beyond the glory, there was no room in her head for grief. In her mind, Opna had already become a Fallen Hero, never mind the circumstances of her death, the raw horror behind it, the distinctly unheroic way in which she'd turned, blood-crazed and mad, and gone after them.

Pado mused on how just a few years ago, he wouldn't have been able to put a name to grief—not because he was unacquainted with it—none of the Host were so lucky—but simply because the concept had no name, no recognition among them. The Cherubim weren't like most angels, they weren't battle trained, or restricted from emotion. They were encouraged to feel, but only _specific _emotions; to wear love and kindness like a gauntlet, to embody goodness in a way that left a bitter feeling in the depths of Pado's Grace. It wasn't real. But that all changed a while ago, and Pado couldn't say whether he was better or worse for it.

Diari was frowning. "You're sure the exits are blocked?"

"Saw it myself—all demons!" Human—f_ire, _human—_fire. _The demons looked to be quarantining the area, and the only reason Pado could see for it happening was to target _them, _specifically. Turn the whole town into angel-killing zone. It was confusing, the Cherubim had never been targeted throughout almost all of Heaven's battles, because of the limitations of their occupation, and that this was happening now was just—

A slow smile was building on Diari's face, and it made Pado cringe. "I haven't been to battle, before!"

Pado wondered sometimes just how it was that Diari became a Cupid. She was downright _bloodthirsty_.

He notched another arrow, but he was growing tired. The ranks of the Infected were growing in spite of them, he was sure of it—and it wouldn't take much for a group to take him down, Diari or no. Diari was crazy, they were doomed— two wingless Cherubim verses an army of Infected within, and an army of demons without, even if they weren't attacking right then. Waiting for them to become fatigued, most likely. Like they were right now.

"Wait, Pado—I'm getting something!" Diari bellowed. Human—_fire. _"Someone here is praying loudly—it's Castiel! _Castiel _is praying Pado, I can hear it!"

Hope surged within him. Castiel, the most feared angel in all of Heaven—whether he was loved or hated, he was the Powerful One, the one who helped stop the Apocalypse and Raphael, whose Grace managed to tear the angels out of Heaven. Who had died and come back so many times, the Host had lost count. If Castiel was around, he could be their salvation.

Or their death, but pessimism wasn't encouraged among the Cherubim, before.

oOo

Dr. Lee revised her earlier opinion of ignorance being bliss when the newest addition to the brotherly duo—the one she didn't recognize—began praying aloud, to _angels _ from the sound of things, for assistance in stopping the viral outbreak.

She thought she'd left this strangeness behind her seven years ago, when her town disappeared from off the face of the Earth and she narrowly avoided being sent in for psychiatric help after reporting it to the police. She'd changed jobs, finding herself more comfortable with patients that wouldn't potentially turn murderous in the middle of an examination, inserted herself as an outsider in another small town, where she could draw some measure of peace from the fact that there had been no murders in at least two decades.

That is, until everything turned on its head. Until everyone went crazy and started falling in love, and bodies turned up at her door. Coward she was, when the lines went down and the power out she'd locked herself in her office, because, turned out she wasn't paranoid, the virus followed her around _wherever _she went. Then Sam and Dean, the not-US Marshals arrived with their friend, and it was like no time had passed at all, she was in the exact same nightmare situation she was in all those years ago.

Except, there were _angels _this time. Surely that merited an explanation.

"What's going on?" she asked, and almost thinking she'd be ignored again, but the man who had prayed—his name was Cas, apparently—said something about needing to wait, and wandered off into another room. The taller brother, Sam, turned to her.

"It's sort of a long story. You see, there's this virus—"

"Oh, I know all about that," she said, and Dean nodded at his brother, confirming it. "What I don't know is, what's this about angels? And cupids? What exactly a_re _you people?"

"Well, we aren't FBI, if that's what you're asking," Sam said. "We, uh—we handle strange things, you know, we're the sort of people you call when things have gone wrong."

"What Cobra Bubbles is trying to say here, is that we handle supernatural events, like this virus here—it's called Croatoan, demonic origin, no known cure. Anyway, what we're doing right now is calling for some angelic reinforcements—that's Castiel over there, he used to be an angel, too. We're thinking, maybe we can fight our way to someplace where we can make explosives, you know the gig. Question is, are you going to help us with that, or not?"

"Dean!" His brother was looking at him like he was crazy. "What are you doing?"

"Can't afford to be vague, Sam, we'll need all the help we can get, if we don't want this going like it did last time."

"You're crazy," she said. "You're all crazy." She didn't mean it. She'd gone through this once before, had the same accusations made of her. And considering her previous suspicions of them, it wasn't altogether unexpected. But it _was _a lot to take in.

"Not my problem, then," Dean said, turning around with an air of dismissal. "Make sure you don't leave this building until everything is over. In fact, find a basement. Spend the night. We'll leave a car for you by the exit, if everything turns out. If not, you're on your own."

"Wait." This was unfair, being made to feel like she'd failed some kind of test. "I'll help. What do I need to do?" She couldn't be powerless this time.

"Can you shoot?"

"Yes." She wasn't incredibly good at it, but she had gone out hunting with her cousins a few times, in the past. More often, after the Incident.

"Good. Head shots are effective. If you've ever seen Walking Dead, you'll know what to do."

She nodded, slowly. Castiel poked his head inside the door.

"They've arrived. And I believe they have something to tell us."

oOo

"Oh, no. You've got to be kidding. So, what, the power of love can save the day? You expect me to believe this 'Friendship is Magic' line you're feeding?" Dean glowered at the cupids standing before him, but only one of them had the decency to look sheepish about it.

"Well, it makes sense," Sam said, studiously ignoring Dean's betrayed squawk. "A demonic virus that can be counteracted by what is essentially an angelic one… I can see that. The desire to love nullifies the desire to kill."

"It doesn't work on us, though," one of the cupids sighed. Pado, Dean believed. "We learned that from Opna, as well. We're immune to our own arrows. We had to—she attacked us."

"But that doesn't solve the problem of the people who have _already _turned," Sam said, frowning.

"Is your poison effective after someone becomes infected with Croatoan?" Castiel queried.

"No. It's only preventative… we've tried. If anything, it makes them _more _violent."

Castiel nodded solemnly, and the other cupid—Diari? picked up where Pado left off. "We've been trapped. There are demons guarding the periphery. When we heard your prayer—" she turned a sunny smile to Castiel. "We hope you'll help us. I've always wanted to fight with a—" She cut herself off, suddenly shy.

"I'm not sure if we can—"

"We will do all we can," Castiel interrupted. He tilted his head to indicate Sam, Dean, and Dr. Lee. "They will need to be shot before they leave."

Dean was going to say, _what about you_, but Castiel got up too quickly, said something about finding a gun suitable for Dr. Lee, he was going to the car, only a moment.

And when he pulled his worried eyes from the glass door, Pado was in his face.

"Whoa there, Twilight Sparkle," Dean said. "Back off."

"I don't understand. You aren't feeling anything?" Pado said, looking concerned.

"What? No, why?"

He looked down, to see what was definitely an arrow protruding out of his stomach. He couldn't feel it, even as he pulled it out. And he couldn't feel anything _else _either, no strange urges, or whatever someone was supposed to feel after being hit with a cupid's arrow. Come to think of it, he didn't actually know what that was supposed to be.

"Uh. Is this normal?"

"No, no, it isn't," Pado assured him. "It's just—" He walked around Dean, bit his bottom lip. "—not working. That only happens when—this is a very powerful poison, understand. Someone has to already be in love, _really _in love, to fight it off." Suddenly his eyes lit up. "Are you…?"

"None of your damn business." Dean took a step back, turned to see how Sam and Dr. Lee were doing. Diari was struggling to peel the coroner off of Sam, while Sam stared unaffected out the door, making sure Castiel wasn't jumped by Croats while he retrieved weapons from the trunk of the Impala.

"Nope. I can see it now." Pado's eyes were closed, making room for a searingly bright grin. Dean turned back, surprised. "It's beautiful."

He opened his eyes again, and Dean tried not to gape.

"Wait. Can all angels see…?"

"No, not all angels. But—" Pado tapped his chest. "_We _specialize. I am very happy for you, Dean Winchester. Love is a saving grace. Yours perhaps more than most."

"Um," Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right. Uh." He looked back through the door at Castiel for a moment. "What do you see when you look at him?"

"That's not how it works," Pado said gently. "Love is an act of faith."

Dean swallowed. "Okay."

Diari, giving up on getting Dr. Lee off of Sam, palmed her arrow, lunged forward in a single, frustrated motion. Dean didn't react fast enough.

"Wait, no, he's immune—"

It was too late. The arrow was embedded in Sam's arm, and Dean saw the moment his expression softened, into the most dopey, goofball grin Dean had ever seen. Castiel was walking back, arms laden with weapons.

_No._

"Oh, Baby," Sam said. He shook Dr. Lee off easily, and went to walk outside…

_Hell no._

…and instead of intercepting Cas, moved past him to run his hands over the car, crooning. _Dean's _car.

"FUCK no!"

Somehow Castiel caught him before he could beat the snot out of Sam. How he manages\d to do that without poking Dean in the eye with the bayonet was a complete mystery. Why he brought out the bayonet at all was another one.

"Dean, calm down. The Croatoans appear to be in hiding, Sam is safe where he is right now."

"That's not the _point. _The _point _is his hands are all over _my car_—"

Castiel's look was scathing; he brushed past Dean to deposit a plethora of weaponry at Dr. Lee's feet. "I would like you to pick out the gun you are most comfortable using," he said. For himself, he picked up a sawed-off, the ghost of a smile passing over his face as he felt the familiarity of it.

"Gun?" Dr. Lee said vaguely. "For what?" She peered over Castiel's shoulder to get a clear line of Sam, who was draping himself over the Impala in the most sickeningly affectionate manner Dean could conceive of.

Castiel paused. Looked at her. "Possibly this wasn't the best idea," he said quietly.

"Oh, you've got that right," Dean said and Castiel's attention turned back to him, as if to ask why he wasn't acting strangely, too.

"You kidding?" Dean said. "Those two are freaking useless now. I'm not going to get shot after seeing _that, _thank you." He jerked his thumb at Sam. "And a little warning next time, yeah?"

Castiel didn't look like he was buying it, but he turned away again. "You are going to have to defend Sam Winchester's life," he told Dr. Lee gravely. "He is in great danger. There are people who want to kill him. We are here to make sure that doesn't happen."

"Oh," Dr. Lee said. The confusion cleared. "I can shoot, I can definitely defend him, yes! Those bastards are going _down!_"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her enthusiasm. Castiel shrugged. "I understand love is a great motivator," he apologized.

"Sure, but that ain't love. That's freaky mojo messin' with their heads." He twiddled his fingers, to emphasize his point.

"I don't like it either, but with time the effects will wear off," Pado said, picking up an extra angel's blade from the pile, thankfully without asking about its origin. "It's a sad thing, really," he said faintly. "So many just can't love without the poison, their unions dissolve almost as soon as it fades from their system." _Mom, Dad, _Dean thinks, and remembers why he's always hated the cupids. "There are so few instances of real love anymore, _true _love, _big _love." The smile he turns on Dean is practically _blinding, _the bastard, and he wheels Castiel away from it instinctively.

"We need to get moving."

oOo

"I need _faith _to do this?" Crowley roared, and felt completely justified in doing so.

"By all indications, yes," Kevin snapped. "The lore is _there_, check it yourself if you want to, it's straightforward enough. It's a test of spiritual purity, and you need to prove that you have faith sufficient to move mountains or walk on water. God has a thing for that, apparently."

Crowley was hoping they'd be able to work around to the bleeding-heart spirituality stuff later. As it was, he just didn't have the constitution for it.

"Well, God's chicken scratch doesn't say we had to do the Trials in order, did they?" Frankly, it would be ridiculous, having to do them in order. What did He care when things were done, so long as they were done, anyway?

"Uh, yeah. Right here. 'Thou shalt do this before thou doest this'." Kevin shoved the Tablet over to him, pointing at a passage.

"You know I can't read that."

"Guess you'll have to take my word for it, then. I hear there's a swimming pool a few blocks from here, we should try there. Unless you're having second thoughts?"

Crowley grit his teeth. "Only about letting you keep all your limbs."

oOo

Things were complicated enough already, and the cupid-engineered cure only made matters worse. Differentiating between Croats and demons was one thing, adding civvies into the mix was quite another. Diari and Pado were looking at Castiel like they expected a plan, and Castiel was looking at _him_, Dean, like he wasn't Lead Strategist, Chess Master of Heaven. He shifted uncomfortably.

"So. If it runs up at you, or attacks someone else, it needs killing. Bullets don't work, it's a demon, use the angel blade." That was step one. He was thinking aloud, organizing things in his head.

"Normally I'd say to leave the demons for last; if they're trapping _you _guys in, they're probably trapping the Croats, too. But they're the ones who brought in the virus to begin with, they could move out with it, spread some more and guard a bigger area—the county, maybe. They're the bigger fish in this situation."

Castiel nodded. "I agree. Dr. Lee and Diari should guard the flanks, aim ranged attacks at the infected should they approach. The rest of us will go hand-to-hand against the demons. Perhaps Sam could speak an exorcism."

"So it's to the town limits, then," Dean said. "It's going to be a bitch getting Sam away from _my car_."

Diari's face crumpled once the hunters made it a reasonable distance away. "Can't see why I'm on ranged instead of close combat. I've been stabbing the infected all day. And I use arrows, not guns."

"You're too eager for battle and bloodshed, sister. Perhaps Castiel could see that."

oOo

The demons weren't happy about being attacked, naturally, but their conduct confirmed something of Dean's suspicions from earlier—they weren't bent on massacre so much as containment. They went after him, Cas, and Sam easily enough, but around Pado they kept a wide berth. It was strange.

Croats were coming too, as expected, but Dr. Lee proved surprisingly adept at gunning them down, and Diari seemed to have a huge learning curve when it came to human weaponry. Sam had a conniption fit when a demon smashed the car window, and was now fighting with a rage that, while not totally inappropriate to the situation, was certainly worrying. All in all, it was going surprisingly well, so long as one ignored the fact that they were severely outnumbered and the growing pile of bodies didn't seem to be making a dent in the demon's ranks.

At least, it was going well until the other angels showed up.

They came in an M1161 Growler, of all things, ten or fifteen of them, piling out with a shout when they saw the fighting. _Alliesenemiesalliesenemies _Dean panicked, but they began going after the demons as well, angel blades out and flashing in the fading sunlight. The demon population seemed to grow exponentially after that, counterintuitively, and Dean was forced to wonder if they were in hiding the entire time.

But he couldn't afford to worry about that. Sam was pinned down under a couple of demons—and Sam could heal now, he got that, but he didn't want to test if that power extended to broken necks or stab wounds, so Dean hopped over a couple of bodies to help—

When with a flash of golden light and a sizzling sound, both demons dropped dead right on top of him. Almost like they had blinked out when Sam was chock full of demon blood.

One of the angels must have made the same connection, because they broke away from the main fighting as well, flipped the blade in their hand in preparation to throw—Dr. Lee was shooting at it, to no effect—

"NO!" And Pado was running, top speed, dove in the line of fire, to protect Sam—

The blade hit him square in the chest. Dean's demon blade wasn't going to work; so he rolled forward and yanked it out of Pado. Grace shot out in a double-explosion as he plunged it into the attacker's throat, before it could finish killing Sam.

He helped his brother up, but the confusion of battle didn't keep the other angels from noticing. Castiel was threading his way over now, having dispatched another demon, trying to stop them.

"_They are still my charges and I will slay whoever lay_s _a finger on them_." There was no bluff there, and the angels only paused to look at Castiel for a moment before they returned to the fighting.

"What—" Sam said.

"Try not to repeat that," Dean said. "Let's go."

Eventually, they managed it. Every demon, dead, and the last time Dean had seen this many bodies piled in one place was Purgatory, and _that_ wasn't something he wanted to think about. He eyed the other angels warily. They'd converged around Castiel, who looked rather like a street cat at the moment, scraped up and half-wild.

"We hail from the army," one of them said, the leader by all indications, and it was as much as Dean had feared. Demon-killing aside, they were the real enemies here, the ones who were bent on launching Apocalypse 3.0, since the first two times weren't enough. "We did not expect to find you here."

"I'm not going," Castiel said fiercely. "Your plan is foolish. It will be the end for us all."

Sam looked at him questioningly, _plan?_ but Dean waved his hand. _Not important. Maybe later._

"I would kill you," the angel continued serenely, "But honor prevents it. You have defended our own today, Castiel, and for that you shall live another day. Besides," he sneered "Your humanity makes you not worth the effort." He beckoned Diari, who was crouched over Pado's body, looking as close as an angel ever did to crying. "Come, soldier. We have work for you."

"Diari, no."

"I'm ready to fight," she said, not looking at Castiel, but at Pado. "It's not eagerness, it's duty." She joined the other angels, some of which favored them with a formal nod.

"The town's full of Croats—" Dean began.

"It will be taken care of." It was a dismissal if he'd ever heard one, so he herded everyone back into the car, only to make a quick stop at the motel before blowing town.

Dr. Lee extricated herself from Sam halfway through the trip, looking somewhat bemused. The cupid poison was wearing off faster than expected; what this meant for the "vaccinated" townies, Dean didn't want to know. Sam looked a little green when he came to himself, and stumbled out of the car to throw up almost as soon as they parked.

"I don't think I'm up to riding back with you, Dean," he said shakily. "That was the most unpleasant—"

Castiel tossed him his keys. "Take my bike, Sam. Dr. Lee, do you have a vehicle?"

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "Don't worry, we'll rustle one up for you," Dean promised. "More importantly—Sam. What the hell happened back there?"

"I don't know. I can't explain it, it just… happened."

"Time is of the essence," Castiel said. "We need to leave. Dean, I will speak with you in the car."

oOo

Buer's excuses, all "unforeseen developments" and "Winchester" didn't save him from demotion, nor did it save him from the torture Abaddon had lined up for him.

She decided it was best if she listened to her own advice from then on. Her first battle had been lost, and she couldn't make any more mistakes. _A good general is perfect, and makes no mistakes. _Against her better judgment, she read Sun Tzu, and found his observations to be sound.

Not for the first time, she wondered if it wouldn't be best to let Crowley return scot-free, after all. His help was what she needed, not the brainless assistance of her underlings.

oOo

"So, I'm assuming you have a theory?" Despite _needing to speak with _him, Castiel had been perfectly silent for the first ten minutes of the trip. And here he'd thought that Castiel was voluntarily occupying the same space as him. Bitter, bitter. His thoughts were too bitter.

"Yes."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"I don't think there's any danger of the angels pursuing Sam," Castiel said. "I believe what happened in this case was a… 'knee jerk reaction,' if you will, to something unexpected occurring on the battlefield. They won't try again, although their curiosity might have been piqued. We will have to be careful."

"…Okay, but that's not what I meant. I meant, he just popped two demons with his _mind_, Cas. Any theories regarding _that?"_

"There's no need to speak of it without Sam present," Castiel said calmly. Dean nearly banged his head into the steering wheel, for frustration. "Well, he _would _be, if being in the car didn't make him feel sick to his stomach. I'm worried, Cas, okay? It'll be hours before we get home."

Castiel frowned, thinking it over. "I understand Sam believed the Trials were purifying him," he said.

"Yeah, and?"

"And they might very well have been doing just that. His change could be enabling him to burn off that last bit of demon blood in his system, what Azazel infected him with as an infant."

"So, what, he has a more efficient carburetor now? Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not entirely sure what you mean by that."

"But even if it's just demon blood effects—that doesn't explain the healing, Cas. Sam could never heal himself on demon blood. He was strong, sure, and fast, and he could gank demons with his mind and do some psychic stuff, but he could never do _that_."

Castiel sighed. "That is true."

They drove for a while in silence after that, the radio playing muted rhythms Dean knew by heart. There was a lot he wanted to say, a heavy weight on his chest, but the coolness of the atmosphere, the detached air of professionalism made it difficult. He tried anyway, coughing awkwardly, but voice steady.

"I want to do the first Trial tonight," he said. Castiel's head whipped around. "Pado said something before he died, poor bastard. I think— I know what I need to do."

"And you're not going to tell—" _Sam. _

"Not yet. Please, just… trust me. We're gonna be okay. All of us."

Castiel didn't believe him, but he didn't argue either, and that was a step.

oOo

"Wow. I didn't expect you to be able to do it," Kevin marveled, when they'd made it a safe distance from the commotion. Turned out, using a _public _swimming pool for the Trial wasn't the safest course of action. People were crying out that Crowley was the Messiah now, or a demon in swim trunks. _Not quite, not quite, _Crowley kept thinking. They'd hightailed it away from the mob, Crowley more terrified than he had been of anything, even Lucifer, with Kevin laughing like the situation was five flavors of hilarious.

Crowley smirked at Kevin, all smugness, but inwardly he was every bit as confused. He, Crowley, had mustered enough faith to walk over water. That he had faith at _all _was news to him; he'd been cynical and pragmatic his entire existence. He pulled himself up the ranks by his bootstraps, he'd never believed in anything or anyone other than himself. But when he stood by the edge of the water he tried—to conjure up an image of what he was trying to do, stepped onto it thinking, a little, of redemption—

And that was the scary thing. Crowley believed in redemption. He had faith it could be achieved, granted to him. The _demon_.

Was there ever anything so pathetic?

oOo

"Well, here we are. The big moment." The canoe revolved around itself in the center of the small lake, pinwheeled in a lazy, circular motion over moon-encrusted water. Dean kicked off his shoes, looked at Castiel speculatively.

"So, I need faith to get across," he said.

"Yes."

Dean scooted closer, letting the boat rock as he edged towards Castiel. "God and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."

"No, I wouldn't imagine you were."

They both sighed, and listened to the soft slapping of the water against the sides of the canoe.

"There's something that Pado said to me, 'bout faith," Dean said. "I guess I—I think it'll work."

Castiel's smile was rueful. "You think."

"Yeah." He reached out, captured Castiel's hand with his own, happy when he didn't jerk away. When held up to the moon, it looked like it was glowing. Amazing. "I do."

_Love is an act of faith._

So he leaned down, and kissed him. It wasn't like the last time, when Sam was in the hospital. There was no urgency, no sense of falling into it, of not being in control. This was deliberate. And this time he was afraid—that Castiel would pull away, that he'd disappear, _don't __**touch **__me._ He'd stiffened whenever Dean touched him lately, it seemed, and maybe this was a bad idea—

But he didn't. He stayed, warm and reassuring, and he kissed back.

It felt good.

"Dean, I don't want you to do this." Their foreheads were touching, breath mingling between them. "Huh?" Dean said.

"You'll die."

"I know." Hadn't they had this conversation already? They hadn't, Dean realized. He'd just assumed it was a tacit understanding they had between them—_I have to save Sam, I have to save you_. Not to mention everyone else. Castiel knew that, what would happen if he didn't. Azathoth would break open the dimensions, bring about the end of times. The future. "It's only temporary. Someday you'll come an' join me, an—"

"You don't understand, Dean." The former angel pulled away then, and the air grew cold on Dean's arms. "The angels will be no more pleased to be locked _in _then they are to be locked _out._"

"I know. It doesn't matter," Dean said firmly.

"How could you possibly—" Castiel shook his head. "In the Cage, Sam was locked up with two angry archangels. You'll be with, with _thousands—"_

"It doesn't matter," Dean repeated. Castiel could have sworn he saw starlight shining in his friend's eyes. "Because, because _Purgatory, _Cas. Because I found you, and you'll find me, when you're done livin' down here an', an' takin' care of Sam—"

"_Dean._"

"And then it won't matter if everyone and their dog is after us, because… _that's _what I believe in. I have faith in _you_, Castiel. I always have. Even when I didn't in anything else. I'll be fine. I know that."

_Then you're a fool._

But Dean had stepped off the boat, and Castiel heard his boyish laugh of wonderment, as his feet rested against the water without sinking into it. He looked back at Castiel with an earsplitting grin.

"Cas. Cas, look, check this out—"

He ran like a madman across the lake, still laughing, jumped and turned like a spirit called up from the depths. Castiel just watched, and when Dean came back to the canoe to speak the words to the spell, arms glowing and breath gasping, he bit the inside of his cheek. He was really doing it. He was murdering his friend.

It would be a betrayal to cry.

_**A/N: Sorry about the lack of Bobby in this chapter—he's going to feature more prominently in the next one, but this has gotten really long already, and I'm going to be leaving for a week or so, and wanted to send this off.**_


	11. Hecate's Debut--Part One

_**A/N: Don't you hate it when Real Life interferes with writing fanfiction? My week of absence turned out to be more like a month, so this is Part One of what was meant to be a longer chapter, but is being posted now to prove, you know, that I'm alive. Then I can read a bit without feeling guilty, huh? As always, I love reading your reviews. They're all so thoughtful, and they make my heart melt. Thanks, guys. Thanks for sticking around.**_

_**Oh, and tell me what you think of Amelia and Don! I kind of love them. I'll accept flames for that. But I do.**_

"It's in our best interests to go to her first," Gabriel had said thoughtfully. "We wouldn't want to color her judgment."

Bobby didn't think it was strictly in their best interests to go at _all_. He also resented the use of _we_, when they both knew perfectly well it would be Bobby, and Bobby alone who would be going in without a roadmap. When he said as much, Gabriel only smirked. After reminding him that cell phones were in vogue, he went on to outline, painstakingly, _why _exactly the goddess' allegiance was a necessary first step. She was notorious for picking the winning side. She had good relations with gods across the board, from good to evil and from all faiths. She had the power to command a sizeable force on Earth, and she could likely mobilize the Heavens as well. She had a soft spot for humans. If they had her, they could have anyone.

Bobby couldn't pretend he liked it, but it made enough sense, so he went out unescorted, walked through the crossroads of Heaven, until he'd found himself deep in her realm. The distant barking of dogs along with a single, amphibious croak signaled her arrival, as she cut through the mist to meet him.

It was gratifying to know that she didn't have three heads.

"Heaven's agent seeks my audience to request assistance in a future battle," she said, her voice a soft lilt without any of the power or fire behind it that Bobby expected. Despite the twin torches she held out, only Bobby was illuminated, and she remained distorted by the fog and the shadows that seemed to reach up and cling to her.

"Well, that saves me some time," he said gruffly. He pulled out the cell he'd been given and texted Gabriel he'd found her. Having to be coached on texting by an Archangel still occasionally prone to using anachronistic terminology had been an embarrassment, to say the least. Bobby made up for it by cussing marginally more than he usually did.

He couldn't see her mouth to check for a smile, but the tone of her voice seemed to indicate one. "Fear not, traveler," she said. "I am known to some as the goddess of trivia, after all."

"Seeing as you've already told me why I'm here, maybe you could do your own convincing, too," Bobby answered, irascible. Maybe it was being dead that made him bold, or maybe he was just frustrated that he couldn't get the cell to stop vibrating after Gabriel sent his reply. _If you found her, make your fucking point and tell me what she says._ This was why Bobby had always used the landline.

"I am curious," she said. "On how your Heaven proposes to fight this threat at all. Well do I know what will occur if the Fallen are left unchecked, and I have been approached already by others seeking a solution. What I can do for them is clear. What could I do for you, the instigators of the problem?"

"The same thing, probably," Bobby ventured. "Heaven is going to be bound up; our Champions—" he bit out the word, the term Gabriel had taught him to use, "—will be able to send them from Earth, zero mess. You have control over the witches. If you could delay the fallen angels, if you could protect the Champions, there is no chance of loss." These lines, precisely the ones Gabriel had drilled into him. He hadn't provided any specifics to Bobby, hadn't even seen fit to tell him how exactly Heaven was going to be closed. But he had faith in his boys, even if he didn't in his so-called "boss".

"Champions?" She straightened. "Let me see." She held out her hands, thankfully normal-looking, if pale, and Bobby scowled as he offered his to her. They'd barely touched before she drew hers away again, as if burned.

"_These _are your Champions?" she snarled. "They imprisoned and assisted in killing Zeus, my benefactor. They let Artemis, my enemy, live."

"I don't know about any of that," Bobby said.

Her voice softened. "Yet they are a friend of my child Portia's—even if the enemies of those who still remember me. You have mistaken my power, Bobby Singer. It is not over the witches, but over—" she morphed, in an instant turning into a snarling wolf. "—their familiars. They offer guidance, they do not order. My help is of a limited nature." The mist churned around her, and she became a woman again. "You have dealt with powerful magic, Singer. Had Heaven not laid its claim on you, you might have had a familiar long ago. To fill your void."

"The hell you saying?"

"Karen's soul is safe," she said. "I know this for a fact. Tell your Gabriel that I will consider assisting you. It is a better plan than any others I have been privy to, providing that your Champions are trustworthy and capable. I claim my right to test them before making my decision."

Bobby shot off another text. _Says she wants to "test" them before making up her mind. Sounds fishy. I don't like it._

Gabriel's reply came back within a few moments. _There's a precedent for that sort of thing—we had it done with Job. Give her the okay, and report back to me._

Bobby considered smashing the phone, but he raised his eyes back to those of the goddess. "Alright, then."

She nodded. "As a favor. Tell Gabriel he will be murdered the moment he steps outside of Heaven's walls. The Hindu gods know of his resurrection, and are eager for vengeance."

"You know what? I don't think I will."

oOo

By the time they returned to the bunker, the roses had wilted. Dean wasn't surprised—they weren't in bloom for terribly long—but Castiel was freaking _bereft, _like the season had killed off someone dear to him, or something.

So, on one stifling hot morning, leaving Sam to do a number three in the Men of Letters library, he made a quick run for supplies. Surprisingly enough, his brother was outside when he arrived back, apparently unwilling to let his book fetish interfere with his summer tan. Consequently, he was there to perform his patented Sam Winchester Eyebrow Gymnastics when he glimpsed the contents of the whorl-decorated clay pot Dean carried with the shopping bag.

"Dude," Sam said. "Is that what I think it is?"

Dean cradled the clay pot against his chest, a little defensive. "Hey, houseplants are awesome. We can take it with us places—like Leon in The Professional."

"Sure, houseplants are fine," Sam conceded. "But those are_ flowers, _Dean. Huge, _purple_ flowers."

"They're easy to care for. Besides, it's not like they're for _me._" He stepped past him and into the doorway, clearly agitated. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, exactly."

"Hey, do you know where Cas is?" Sam wondered how his brother ever succeeded in being a con man, when the studied casual tone he adopted now was so painfully transparent. _You're fucking bringing him flowers. It would only be funnier if you declared it your anniversary._

_"_Oh," Sam said. "You know. Training up to become Mr. Universe. You really should talk to him about that, by the way. It's getting a bit excessive."

"He's beating you at running, isn't he?" Sam's affronted snort was all the confirmation he needed. "See you inside, bitch."

Sam snapped his book shut. "Actually, Dean. I need to talk to you about something."

He was more than a little shocked when telling Dean about the dreamwalking only drew a surprised blink and an almost unconscious scratch behind his ear, not so much a gesture indicating he had heard enough as one checking to see if the herbs were still in place. Then he smiled, slightly. "And you're saying you're gaining control over it?"

"What?" This time it was Sam's turn for a surprised blink.

"I said, are you gaining more control over it? I mean, if Adam's still alive, that's not good news, but if you can avoid him, or even find out his location—"

"I don't want to kill him, Dean. We've been over this. And—yeah, yeah, I am, but I guess I—just, isn't this the point where you tell me to quit the psychic crap, or, I dunno, try to figure out what's wrong with me?"

Dean's lips pursed, his brows drawing together. "Is that what you want me to do?"

"No. Yes—I'm not sure. I don't like not knowing what's going on. What if I'm—what if I'm becoming some kind of monster? Again. Why are you so okay with this?"

Dean's lips tugged upwards. "I told you already—it's _fine_. I trust you. You know, I think that was most of the problem, before. Hell, that's _always _the problem, not trusting each other when it counts. And I'm tired of playing that game, you know? We're a team, you and me. Anyway, if I could do the things you could do…maybe we should be taking it in stride. Maybe it's a good thing."

"That's uncharacteristically optimistic of you."

"What can I say? I have a good feeling. I want to keep it."

"Okay." Sam nodded to himself, still confused. He'd been prepared for shit to hit the fan, for Dean to have an episode and to have to defend himself. He hadn't expected this, this automatic acceptance and trust. It stirred a strange feeling inside of him—relief? Or something bigger. Elation. He knew he shouldn't still look to his brother for absolution, but the deepest parts of him still depended on Dean for acceptance and love, a fact he'd always been afraid of but couldn't help but feel.

Dean coughed into his hand slightly as he turned away, the shopping bag rustling as he did so, and it drew Sam's attention to something else he'd been thinking about lately.

"Hey, you feeling alright? Lately you've been a little pale."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I am feeling a little under the weather. Haven't been getting much sleep lately, you know." He winked, and Sam groaned.

"Seriously? I didn't need that image, you jerk."

A smile twitched at the corners of Dean's mouth. "'Course you did. So. Once you're done burning to death out here." He nudged himself further in the door.

"Yeah, see you in a bit."

When Dean finally shut the door behind him, he let loose the coughing fit he'd been trying to hold in, rubbed his free hand furiously against his jeans when he'd finished. He'd need to wash it in a minute.

Castiel was right after all. This was shaping up to be exactly like last year, and Dean hated himself for it.

oOo

"I told you, I don't have that part translated yet! I can't help it—they're getting harder as they go along, this is probably three times as difficult as translating the Hell tablet was, okay? And the Men of Letters Bunker has nothing that can help me, alright?"

"_Well, why don't you come and stay with us for a bit anyway? It'd be safe…you could concentrate… dammit, Kevin, we're your friends! It's not a good idea to be out there on your own!"_

It was the third time they'd had this argument, and Kevin was sick to death of it, sick of the fury that sloshed in his belly every time Dean spoke to him. "I'm _not _your _friend_," he spat, feeling a rush of pleasure as Dean's end of the line went silent. "Did you ever even bother thinking of the consequences of what you did back in that church? You're all for saving the world, unless it's your family's lives on the line, is that it? Do you know how much I fucking gave up to close the Gates of Hell? _My_ family_, my_ bestfriend_, my_ life. And you fucking dropped the ball, Dean! Now, believe me, I'm thrilled you're all for sealing the angels in Heaven, but I'm not going to get within ten miles of you on the off chance that I lose control and hunt you, your brother, and your goddamned angel pal down for starting this mess!"

Dean's voice was low. "_You don't mean that. Kevin, we never meant for that stuff to happen to you—_"

"You never cared that it happened, either," Kevin growled. "All for stabbing my mom when she was possessed, remember? You never cared about me; I was—am— just useful, because I'm the Prophet. 'It'll all be over soon,' all those _platitudes _you're so prone to spouting off—were never true. I don't know how I let myself believe them. So no, we're about as far from friends as you can get, Dean. I think I'm better off on my own, thanks. I'll call you back when I have a translation."

He snapped the phone shut, and scowled at the former demon curled pathetically on the sofa, eyes rimed with red, open pill bottles strewn around him. "What are you looking at," Kevin snarled.

"Told you I needed _Scotch_, not aspirin," Crowley moaned disgustedly, attempting to toss a pill bottle at Kevin's feet. "You're worse at listening to directions than an imp."

"Drop the _sick and incapacitated _act," Kevin said. "You were feeling well enough to run around when that zombie mariachi band showed up. I bet you could even handle another case. I found one up in Kermit, Texas. We could even get some Scotch on the way." It was partly Crowley's influence, but Kevin had become startlingly attached to alcohol lately. Hunting and drinking were two activities that seemed to go hand in hand, or at least that was Kevin's explanation for it.

Crowley brightened immediately, and sat up with energy. "Keeping me alive to be slaughtered like a pig," he said gratefully. "You're my Dumbledore. You're sure there isn't a translation for the next part?"

"I'll beat my brains out if I stare at that rock any longer," Kevin confirmed. "And you know, I don't care to fry myself trying anymore, I'm going to take a hiatus from translating if I need to. The world owes me a fucking bathroom break every now and again."

"You've become a foul mouthed bugger," Crowley noted, pleased. "Long as I'm the first one to know about a breakthrough. I'm in no hurry."

"No deal," Kevin said. "I'm not playing favorites; I hate you as much as anyone. Let's get moving."

oOo

_Castiel didn't always kill mechanically. Sometimes there was feeling behind it, which was exactly what Naomi didn't want. _

_ A prayer came through once, making it past all of the filters and defenses Naomi had rigged. It didn't matter, though. It didn't make what Castiel was doing any less real, any less true._

_ "Where the hell are you, man?"_

I'm **here! **_he wanted to scream, but screaming demonstrated emotion, and that was expressly forbidden him. _I'm here and I'm **hurting!**

_He was angry, then; a vat of acid seemed to burst through his Grace, and swipe! stab! Another Dean lay dead at his feet. Castiel, horrified, couldn't pull his eyes away. So he had done it. He'd killed Dean in a fit of rage, unable to control his temper._

_ The next Dean came running, but fury was a poison, and Castiel took him as well. Was this what he __**wanted? **__Did he __**want **__to kill Dean? There was no denying he drove Castiel over the edge, in a million different ways: bitterness and happiness and frustration and elation and black, black anger, when nothing else could move him. Maybe this was what he wanted all along; maybe this would solve all of his problems._

Nononono. _That was wrong, it had to be. He couldn't harm Dean, he was his protector—_

_ But the two corpses at his feet remained, testimonies against him. _You're a monster, Castiel, _they seemed to say. _I know it, _he replied._

_ Eyes wet, he turned the blade in his hands, but Naomi stopped him before it could plunge into his chest._

_ "Stop," she commanded, holding his hands. Castiel could feel her confusion. Angels did not commit suicide. It wasn't done._

_ "I did it wrong, again," she said. Her eyes searched Castiel's face. "What drives you to destroy yourself, Castiel? Why is it so hard to fix you?"_

_ He didn't know. Neither of them did._

Dean was hot when he awoke, and shaking underneath the covers. Castiel had done enough research on human illnesses to understand that this was a bad thing. He reached forward instinctively and touched his fingers to his forehead, only remembering himself when Dean's eyes fluttered open, and he gave him a small, sad smile. He drew them away—he didn't have that power anymore.

"It's already starting," he said quietly. "I will get the Tylenol." The internet had made many recommendations for medicine, and Castiel had been forced to smuggle them all inside the other night, stashing them under the sink while Sam was off running other errands. He'd stopped protesting Dean's secrecy over the matter a while ago—the damage was already done. And there was that promise he'd made, to listen to Dean, and Dean had told him to trust him on that.

So Castiel trusted him.

He slunk downstairs, all stealth, only to find Sam already puttering in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, mixing in some powder for an herbal tea. He liked to drink the concoction cold, he said—preferring the bitterness to its saccharine sweetness when heated.

"Sam," he said solemnly, with a stiff nod. He took one of the chairs at the table, accepting the glass of water Sam offered him. "You're up early."

"And you aren't?" Sam's mouth twisted in a wry smile. "You know you're worrying Dean sick."

"I believe that is Dean's natural condition," he said. "What is keeping you up tonight?"

"I was dreamwalking," Sam said, and Castiel's grip on the glass tightened minutely. "It was Adam—again." The grip loosened. Sam didn't pick up on it. "It's like stepping in mud, dreaming with him—I don't always mean to do it, but then I'm stuck, and it's hard to pull back out."

"What did he do?" Castiel said, eyes narrowing. "If you know his location, perhaps we can hunt him down."

Sam muffled a laugh with his hand, another one bubbling up through his throat when he saw how taken aback Castiel looked. "No, it's okay, Cas. I just never expected to have two big brothers, that's all." He beamed. "I'm okay, really. This is something that I can handle, I swear. I'm gaining more control the more I do this. It could be really useful, don't you think?"

Castiel shook his head doubtfully. "Adam has threatened to torture and kill you on multiple occasions," he said.

"No more than the rest of the hunting community, really," Sam said, and shrugged. "I'm the demon blood kid, remember? That kind of reputation doesn't disappear overnight; I'm probably only still alive because they're all afraid of me. Besides, I'm watching him while he sleeps. I'll be the first to know if he does anything dangerous."

Castiel leaned back in his seat, a change in posture that seemed to indicate surrender to Sam, because his smile was triumphant. "What's keeping _you _up, Cas?"

Castiel could see the strategy in this, Sam opening up in order to coax him to do the same. Dean had tried the same many times before, playing on, as Castiel understood it, a human social rule of reciprocity. However well-intentioned it was, he wasn't playing.

"I was thirsty," he said simply, watching Sam deflate.

"Oh. Well. Okay." Sam's parting smile was strained, and Castiel waited for his footsteps to fade down the hallway before setting down his glass—which he hadn't sipped from yet—to rummage around for the pills he needed.

When he returned to Dean's room, he found him wrapped up in the remaining blankets, a padded cocoon curled on the edge of the bed. He shook him gently awake, nodding towards the pills and water he'd set by him.

"Tha's my Cas," Dean slurred affectionately. "Always takin' care of me."

"You're wrong," Castiel corrected him. "I've never done that."

Dean didn't seem to be listening, though. He sat up and his arms darted out of the comforter for only a moment as he took the medication, eager to return them to the warmth. He tossed himself sideways and into Castiel's lap, letting a corner of his encasement drop away and onto the mattress. For a moment, it seemed to Castiel like the corner of a shroud.

"I'm so happy, Cas. It's weird, isn't it? All this goin' on… and I'm the happiest I've ever been."

Castiel said nothing, but ran his fingers through Dean's hair, eyes screwed shut.

"I'm so happy you're here, Cas. You have no idea… no idea." Dean dropped off soon after that, snoring softly, head resting on Castiel's thigh. Castiel hummed him a tune, a fragment of an Enochian lullaby.

_What drives you to destroy yourself, Castiel?_

He still couldn't say.

oOo

_Amelia… give me Amelia._

Sam hadn't been lying when he said he'd been gaining more control over his dreams. So it was he went searching around now, pulling himself toward a mind, towards a dream with the vestiges of Amelia hanging around it. He couldn't say why it was her he sought, whenever he closed his eyes. There was Adam, of course, whom it was his responsibility to keep an eye on. As far as he could tell, he wouldn't go completely psychopathic so long as Sam still occasionally visited, wouldn't become dangerous so long as Sam was there to take the brunt of his anger. He had faith that with time, he could perhaps wheedle Adam into backing down, to overcome the Cage and live a normal life. Sam told himself he was working to fix Adam, that he was doing for him what many others had done to try and fix Sam. He convinced himself he was the only one capable, because he understood the Cage. Understood Adam, whom he spent more years with, on a whole, than with Dean.

Adam, of course, told a different story. And that was why Sam couldn't bear to dream with him too often. Adam got under his skin, talking destruction and alliance and brokenness in a way entirely too reminiscent of Lucifer. Adam played on that, of course—bringing up shadows of the Morningstar to frighten Sam, all the while whispering of how Michael tormented him through the years, of being the least favorite vessel, the most mistreated. He spoke of how he and Sam had cannibalized each other, while Michael and Lucifer cheered them on, and how he missed that. So Sam, for all of his aspirations, his firmest desire to pull Adam back to humanity—couldn't make himself dream with him. Not if he could help it. He had to be pulled in.

It was Amelia's dreams he clung to, searched out. He might have looked for Cas'—removing the chamomile wouldn't have been difficult, and they all knew he was struggling with something that sleep did nothing to ease—but Dean had forbidden him from both of their heads. And Amelia was the one thing, the only comfort Sam had. He could hide in the corners of her dreams now, bask in her happiness when they were good, and even feel safe in the fact that her worst nightmares involved not being able to save a patient, rather than seeing family torn apart before her eyes. Sam could watch her, and feel that he had made one right decision, left one loved one unsullied by his world of monsters and blood.

Not to say that it was necessarily ethical to spy on her dreams, but they were infinitely preferable to his own. Until that night, when he'd fallen asleep after speaking with Castiel.

The dream was dark and confused, with a tinge of reality that made it seem more memory than fabrication. Raised voices were yelling something indistinct down the hall, the furniture was overturned, and the walls were coated in blood. Amelia was crouched by a closet, too terrified to think of opening it. Sam yanked her up by her elbow, but she wouldn't respond to his questions, her eyes glazed, her breath stuttering. Her arms were covered with cuts of varying degrees—there was glass embedded in a few places. Her dark hair was matted to her forehead and neck, but there were no signs of a head injury.

"Our neighbors, our neighbors," she gasped, dazed. "I don't understand what happened to them. They just stopped acting like themselves. Their eyes changed color, did you know that? I swear, it wasn't just the light, their eyes all—"

"Where is Don?" Sam demanded.

"He's gone—gone!" Amelia screeched. She looked wildly around, the fact of the closet only now seeming to sink in. "I've got to hide," she whispered. "I'll die, I have to—" She crawled into the closet, shutting the door behind her.

The dream began to fragment around him. Sam burst through to the waking world with a roar, shoving his boots onto his feet and slinging the packed duffle always at the foot of his bed over his shoulder almost before he'd blinked the red-stained walls out of his vision.

"DEAN, WE HAVE TO _GO!_" She had to still be alive, if she was dreaming. Whether she'd still be by the time they made it to Texas—Sam couldn't think about that. He had to _movemovemovemove_.

"**DEAN!**"

"Coming!" Dean stumbled out of his room, jacket half-pulled on, gun in hand, a wide-eyed Castiel trailing in his wake. His brother looked wan and pale—worse than he ever looked, even this early in the morning. Sam frowned, about to ask, but Dean had assured him earlier, and there was something else to worry about, broken furniture, broken glass—

"We're going to Kermit. Now."

"Okay," Dean said. He knew that look, and he knew that tone. There was an emergency, and action was going to precede any and all discussion on the matter. "You drive. 'M still tired." The wobble in his step bespoke more than tiredness, but Castiel's supporting arm saved him from getting more than a hard look from Sam before he took the keys .

"I will follow in a few minutes," Castiel said. He nodded at Sam's duffle. "I will pack for the both of us. You two should begin driving."

"Just don't forget the damn GPS this time, okay, Cas?" Sam spared a fleeting smile before whipping out of the door.

"My sense of direction needs no assistance from—"

"Yeah, but you need something to tell you when to switch lanes. You can't go plowing through other people's land just because it's a 'shortcut', you'll be arrested again," Dean reminded him. " Hey, Cas. You'll be—"

"Right behind you. Until Sam sees fit to divulge the exact nature of this trip, we would be best prepared with some things not currently in the Impala's trunk." He pressed a pill bottle into Dean's palm and gave him a long Significant Look.

"Yeah, I got it, okay," Dean sighed. "See you later."

oOo

"What's wrong?" Don whispered. Amelia had woken up trembling in his arms, with a half-muffled shout. Usually it was _him _doing that. It came with the whole PTSD thing.

"I had a dream… about Sam," she said. "Again. It was so strange, though. I don't understand." There was blood, everywhere. Don was dead, or worse. It didn't feel like a nightmare though, it felt—real. More real than most of waking life, to be perfectly honest.

"You love him," Don said gently, for the umpteenth time. Amelia thought it was ridiculous, how he was always saying that. A gore-splattered living room wasn't a romantic setting—her subconscious wasn't telling her Sam was The One, it was probably telling her he was a serial killer.

"No, I don't. I love _you._" Again, repetition. Don sighed, and cupped her cheek in his palm, making sure she was looking at him. He'd been practicing this speech, she could tell.

"I know it. But there's room in your heart for two," he said. "I already have to share it with all of your little patients. Loving me doesn't negate loving him, or vice versa. You keep thinking it does, but it doesn't."

She scowled. "They're just dreams, Don." Ridiculously horrific ones, at that. "And he left _me._"

"I left, too, remember? But that's not the point. The point is, you love him."

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and left them there, loose so that he could move his hand down to cushion her neck. "Look, Don," Maybe they should be talking about how she's dreaming of their impending doom, rather than any vestiges of romantic interest Don has deluded himself into thinking Amelia has for a certain mysterious possible serial killer. But Don has a way of distracting her from the important things. "I don't understand what you're saying. Maybe we had some chemistry—I was depressed, he was depressed, I was a vet, he had a dog, I was starved for sex, and he was Tarzan—but there were so many things wrong with it, I can't even… he wouldn't say anything about his past that wasn't vague or cryptic, and he tried to cover up for it by insisting we talk about me and my _feelings _all of the time." Her eyes narrowed. "Sort of like you, Don. You've never said a word on what happened—with the army."

Pulling his hand out from under her neck, Don sat up, frustrated. "Maybe I don't want to, okay? It was bad down there, that's all you need to know. I mean—you're like this fantastic, unspoiled _thing_, Amelia. The archetype of the perfect woman. It's damn unrealistic—you save animals' lives for a living, you're beautiful, you make tall tough hulking men like me go crazy and want to protect _you_ with their lives. You're worse than Mina Murray, you're like a breathing Mary Sue, and I just—I get that you think you're tough, I do, but I don't think I could even _talk _to you about what happened down there without, without dragging you into it, and that's something I _can't do. _Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She didn't. At all. "Yeah, okay, Don," she said in what she meant to be a conciliatory tone, but came out just sounding disgruntled. Don was the kind of guy you had to pull a Portia with before he trusted you with information—far more forthcoming when your inner thigh was slashed open as physical evidence of your willingness to listen. "I'll go get some water, alright?"

She flicked on the lamp by the bed and made to walk out of the room, before the light started flickering and the ground shaking beneath her feet.

"Uh, I might have dreamed about our gruesome deaths too, while I was asleep," she said, as plaster started dropping from the ceiling.

"That's nice." He hopped up, and began to fumble around for a gun.

_oOo_

"_Job?_" Bobbly roared. "_Job was the precedent? The Job whose children were all killed, property lost, and so sick he wished he was never born Job?_"

"Well, we made up for it afterwards," Gabriel said plaintively. "More wealth than ever, some more children, and he was never unhealthy, just a hypochondriac—"

"_You killed his children! Do you think he just got over that?_"

"Well, for all his purported piety, I always thought he was a heartless old bastard," Gabriel said. "He only mourned them in passing, seemed pleased enough when he had some more. Hated the loss of his property more, really."

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. "I guess what I'm trying to get at here, is how exactly are they gonna be tested?"

"Can't tell," Gabriel said. "I guess the same thing as ever—are they more willing to save the world or each other, when the chips are down? After the Hell Trials, I'm sure that's what everyone's wondering. I mean, I've rooted for them before, but you can't win a chess game if you don't make sacrifices. The way your boys do things might work in a Disney movie, but the fact of the matter is, their methods don't turn sunny side up for them, unless the Big Man has a direct hand in it."

"Speaking of, I mean, I've lost track of angel resurrections at this point, but was he the one who brought you back?"

Gabriel smiled. "Who says I died?"

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
